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♦ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.* 
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CENTENNIAL 



AND 



OTHER POEMS. 



BY 



KATE HARRINGTON. 



DO YOU LOVE POETRY? 

Do you love poetry? When o'er your spirit 

Shadows of grief and of care slowly steal, 
Do the low whispers which some souls inherit 

Beautiful thoughts to your fancy reveal ? 
Oh ! if this be so, though sometimes earth-weary, 

Life is not always unchangingly real, 
Like to a desert, all lonely and dreary, 

Having no gleams of the lovely Ideal. 

If you love poetry, sorrow and sadness, 

Mountains of cares and afflictions may throng, 
Yet will your spirit leap up in her gladness 

When strains burst forth from the fountain of song. 
For there is something within us adoring, — 

Something no mortal has ever defined, 
Raising us upward whene'er we are poring 

Over these mystical dreams of the mind. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO 
.18; 6. 







fS 



P333 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by 

R. S. POLLARD, . 
In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



DEDICATION. 

IOWA. 

Upon the breast of Iowa 

An honored sire reposes ; 
And o'er a sainted mother's clay 

Blossom her summer roses. 
My eldest darling passed, this way, 

Up, through the portals pearly ; 
A blue-eyed baby, too, they lay 

Beneath the violets early. 

Where erst the red man's bow was bent, 

Beside our noble river, 
An elder brother rests content, 

In home and hearthstone, ever. 
An only sister keeps, like me, 

Watch where her first-born slumbers ; 
And lists in vain, on bended knee, 

To catch her waking numbers. 

'Twas here I bent, a blighted vine, 
A bruised need, well-nigh broken, 



DEDICA TION. 

Till kindly hands were clasped in mine, 
And cheering words were spoken. 

And 'tis for this my heart would stay, — 
My soul, till death, would hover 

Near friends who stood beside the flood 
"When love and life passed over. 

I pledge my songs to Iowa, 

If they to effort nerve her; 
I pledge my heart to Iowa 

Whene'er my love may serve her. 
'Twas here my marriage-vows were given, 

'Twas here my children found me ; 
My home is here, and here may Heaven 

Fold angel-wings around me. 

Then join my prayer for Iowa ; 

May valiant sons defend her ! 
And may her daughters give alway 

Their love, warm, true, and tender ! 
May sacred memories hold us here, 

And, till Life's brief dream closes, 
May we her name, her soil revere, 

And sleep beneath her roses! 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Iowa's Centennial Poem 9 

Mother " . .19 

Legend of the Indian Summer 22 

The Children 27 

Baby Margie .29 

To a Night- Blooming Cereus . 34 

The Elder Brother . . .37 

Madeline Bower .40 

Hold the Light 43 

A Temperance Poem ........ 45 

In Memoriam . . . . . . . . . 53 

Josey's Birthday ... . . . . . . 56 

A Welcome to Our "Jo" 59 

A Dirge for Horace Greeley ....... 62 

Lake Michigan . 65 

The Shadows on the Wall 68 

Lines to my Father's Friend ....... 74 

What are the Snowflakes ? 76 

The Baby .......... 77 

October 80 

My Mother's Friend 82 

They Spoke in Whispers . * 84 

5 



6 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

l'AGE 

Only Lent . . . 86 

Esto Perpetua . 90 

Eda 9 2 

Mamma's Valentine . . . . . . . . • 94 

Nelly's Story 96 

I'll Meet thee Alone 101 

Little Georgie Ball 103 

The New Year . 105 

Greeting to the Sir Knights .110 

I am Waiting for Thee . . . . . . . .112 

Woman's Voice . . . . . . . . .114 

The Broken- Hearted . . . . . . . .116 

A Valentine 121 

A Welcome to Mrs. Frances D. Gage . . . . .123 

Oh, Why was He taken ? 126 

My Mother's Glasses 128 

The Mississippi River . 130 

Mount Vernon 132 

One Year Old 135 

Oh, what shall be my Song To-Night? ..... 138 
Lines Accompanying a Cross ....... 140 

Voiceless Prayer 141 

Gone to Sleep 143 

Grandmother Dickey ........ 145 

The Eastern Star 148 

Twenty-One 156 

Old Settler's Song 158 

Recollections of Pittsburg 160 

Welcome to Teachers 1 67 

Centennial .......... 169 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 7 

PAGE 

Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Two . . . . . 171 

Angel Whispers 178 

My Father's Birthday . . . . . . . .181 

The End of the Rainbow . . . . . . .184 

The Dying Soldier 186 

Call Me Thine Own 190 

God's Candle . . . 192 

Away! 194 

Parting Song 196 

The World wants Women . 198 

Maymie ........... 200 

'Tis Not Death 207 

The Saddest Thing 209 

I Must Learn to Live Without Thee 212 

Anniversary . . . . . . . . .214 

Lines on Receiving Maymie's Picture . . . . . 217 

Out of the Ark . . . 219 

Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-Nine 221 

The Flag of the Free 230 

POEMS SELECTED FROM THE WRITINGS OF PROF. N. R. SMITH : 

Apostrophe to the Galaxy ....... 235 

Anticipation and Possession 238 

The Feast of the Fairies 240 

Flowers . . 243 

O! and Oh ! . .246 

A Temperance Song for the Fourth of July . . . 249 

Old Soldiers . . .251 



IOWA'S CENTENNIAL POEM. 

A hundred years ago to-day 
A barren wild our borders lay ; 
Our stately forests grandly stood 
Wrapped in majestic solitude. 
Our rivers, coursing to the sea, 
Felt not the chain of tyranny ; 
Nor yet above their glittering sheen 
Could Freedom's stripes and stars be seen. 

The red man. moored his birch canoe 
Where sweet wild-flowers luxuriant grew; 
Where sumachs, o'er the pebbly brink, 
Bent down their crimson lips to drink; 
And violets, with their tender eyes, 
Looked up in wondering surprise 
At Indian maid, who, by the wave, 
Waited to greet her warrior brave. 

A hundred years ! Gone like a dream, 

All, save our t woods and noble stream ; 

a* 9 



jo IOWA'S CENTENNIAL POEM. 

The red man, with his bended bow, 
No longer fells the bounding doe. 
The camp-fire's curling smoke no more 
Is seen beside the chieftain's door, 
As Black Hawk talks, in whispers grave, 
To Gitchie Manito the Brave. 
But on this broad, luxuriant plain 
Wave golden fields of ripening grain ; 
Our pastures, with their gurgling rills, 
Feed cattle on a thousand hills, 
While giant steamers plow our streams, 
From which our starry banner gleams. 
The mansions on our prairies wide, 
Oft with a rude cot by their side, 
Show how, by years of patient toil, 
The lordly tillers of our soil 
Have reared such homes as freemen may 
With all their shackles torn away. 



The flying shuttle, whirling wheel, 

Invention's mighty power reveal. 

We sweep, by steam, o'er earth's broad track, 

And lightning sends our whispers back. 

We share the nation's glory, too, 

By holding to the world's broad view 



IOWA'S CENTENNIAL POEM. lt 

Our men of mark, of genius rare, 
Scattered, like sunbeams, everywhere. 

On history's page will shine most bright 

Such names as Belknap, Kirkwood, Wright, 

Howell, McCreary, Mason, Hall, 

Dodge, faithful to his country's call, 

And warriors who, through war's wild shock, 

Anchored our ship on Union rock. 

The call that rose at Lexington, 
Where Freedom's struggle was begun, 
Reached not these shores, yet still we claim 
This priceless heritage the same. 
They were our ancestors who fought 
When liberty with blood was bought. 
And Concord, with her patriot band, 
Whose sons to-day rejoicing stand, 
Deserves no more the honors won 
Than we, so near the setting sun. 

Could our hearts bound with wilder thrill 

If we had met on Bunker's Hill? 

Are patriots truer on the sod 

Whence those br^ave souls went up to God? 



IOWA'S CENTENNIAL POEM. 

Not if, with loyal heart and hand, . 
We held the heritage they planned ; 
Not if, along this verdant track, 
When Dissolution's cloud hung black, 
Our soldiers poured their blood like rain, — 
Deluged our sod with crimson stain, — 
And flung our starry banner out 
With glad, prolonged victorious shout, 
Proclaiming where its bright folds waved 
Our fathers' boon — the Union — saved. 

Yes, side by side with those who sped 

Where'er the gallant Putnam led, 

With those whose forms grew cold and still 

Upon the brow of Bunker's Hill, 

We proudly write, on History's page, 

The heroes of the present age ; 

Our dauntless braves, who did not quail 

Beneath the storm of iron hail, 

But who, like valiant Warren, fell 

Guarding the land they loved so well. 

Mills, Baker, Torrence, Worthington, 
Martyrs to Freedom dearly won, 
Beside their tombs our patriots cry, 
"As much of valor as could die !" 



IOWA'S CENTENNIAL POEM. 13 

Ask ye if Woman shrinking stood, 

When rang War's cry o'er field and flood? 

Did mothers, racked by dire alarms, 

Prison their sons with clinging arms? 

No ; worthy of the patriot sires 

That lit the Revolution fires, 

They forced the tears, that needs must start. 

Backward, to trickle through the heart, 

And said, in accents firm and low, 

" Our prayers will follow, — go, boys, go !" 



So when ye boast, as boast ye will, 
Of the green slopes of Bunker's Hill, 
And vow that ne'er shall be forgot 
How Shiloh and Pea Ridge were fought ; 
When, with fond pride, you teach your son 
How Tuttle's men took Donelson ; 
When to Alltoona you refer, 
And tell how Corse defended her ; 
Or when you link with Archer's name 
The sword his son will proudly claim, 
Forget not Woman, who, through tears, 
Read how the form that other years 
Had seen soft-pillowed on her breast, — 
The lips her own* so fondly pressed 



I4 IOWA'S CENTENNIAL POEM. 

Had murmured forth their dying moan — 
Had paled and chilled, unsoothed — alone, — 
Remember, every gallant one 
Who fell was some fond mother's son. 

I stood beneath our State's proud dome, 
And saw the dear old Flag* come home. 
Weary and worn and well-nigh spent, 
To you, O statesmen ! it was sent, 
To hold as a more priceless gem 
Than England's royal diadem. 
On shattered staff the wounded bars 
Held feebly up the golden stars, 
While the scarred veteran seemed to say, 
"E'en death is sweet in Iowa." 

I fancied, as they bore it by, 
Its red stripes glowed with deeper dye, 
Since it had cheered each patriot one 
Whose life-blood crimsoned Donelson. 
Purer its lines of spotless white 
Since trusting mothers knelt at night, 
Lifting their yearning souls above 
On the white wings of Faith and Love, 

* Flag of the Iowa Second, General T. M. Tuttlc, commander. 



IOWA'S CENTENNIAL POEM. 

Pleading His arm might be the stay 
Of valiant hearts from Iowa. 

Deeper its blue since dimming eyes 
Had faintly smiled in sweet surprise 
Upon the silken folds that spread 
Their pitying shadows o'er the dead, — 
The loyal dead, for whom 'twas meet 
Their Flag should be their winding-sheet. 

Brighter its stars of deathless sheen 
Since it had waved o'er fields of green, 
Floated where giant steamers sailed, 
Swayed — trembled — reeled — yet never trailed. 

Well may we celebrate this day 

With glad, triumphant shout ; 
Well may we bid dull care "Away," 

And fling our banners out. 
E'en Nature joins the welcome sounds 

By grateful hearts begun, 
Till from our rocks and vales rebounds 

The name of Washington. 

England her Wellington may claim ; 
France of Napoleon boast ; 



*5 



j 6 IOWA'S CENTENNIAL POEM. 

Scotia extol the deathless fame 

Of Wallace and his host ; 
But more ecstatic is the thrill 

That fires Columbia's son, 
When lip and voice grow strangely still 

At thought of Washington. 

Perchance e'en now the shades of those 

Who first in battle led 
Have left their Eden of repose 

To hover o'er our head. 
They were the sowers of the seed 

That made our country free, 
And we, the reapers, loud indeed 

May shout forth " Victory !" 

Nor to the arm of flesh alone 

Attribute our success ; 
But to the One who led us on — 

The God who deigned to bless. 
And while, to-day, our banners wave 

For battles dearly won, 
We bless the power that victory gave 

To our own Washington. 

Bought with the life-blood of the brave, 
Held through dissension's shock, 



IOWA'S CENTENNIAL POEM 

The heritage our fathers gave 
Stands firm on Freedom's rock. 

Then send your welcomes near and far, 
Let party discord cease ; 

And learn of him who, first in War, 
Was first alike in Peace. 



Yes, patriot brothers, awaken ! 

Leave the red field of carnage behind ; 
Be former contentions forsaken, 

And thus prove all brave hearts are kind. 
Would ye make this, our glorious Centennial, 

A type of the Union above? 
Then join in our earthly millennial, 

And crown it with brotherly love. 



Oh, be not by prejudice blinded ! 

Our wanderers had something to learn ; 
And by parable all are reminded 

That e'en prodigal sons may return. 
Then let generous welcomes be proffered ; 

Give them robes of a right royal hue ; 
Let the rings that restore them be offered 

By victors who honor the Blue. 



17 



iS IOWA'S CENTENNIAL POEM. 

They have desolate hearthstones among them, 

And hearts that still moan in their pain, 
When the thought of the anguish that wrung them 

Floats over remembrance again. 
Then when come your tear-drops, upstarting, 

For friends who passed over the tide, 
Forget not that many a parting 

Brought woe on the Southern side. 

In the names of our patriots ascended ; 

In the names of our heroes who bled ; . 
By the cause they so nobly defended ; 

By the Rachels who moaned o'er our dead ; 
We ask you to pledge them, true-hearted, 

A covenant-promise anew ; 
Remembering 'mong patriots departed 

No line parts the Gray from the Blue. 



MOTHER. 



AGED EIGHTY-FOUR YEARS. 



In the voyage of life, 'mid its tempest and gale, 

The glow of one beacon has never grown pale ; 

It burst into flame at the hour of my birth, 

And has since been the brightest, most steadfast on earth. 

Other beamings, illusive, might lure to betray, 

Other flames, evanescent, might smoulder away, 

But the light that from infancy brightened and blessed 

Was the love of the mother now called to her Rest. 

Oh, the welcoming arms with their tender embrace, 

The glance of affection that lighted her face, 

The lips that so often have opened in prayer 

That my feet might be guarded from pitfall and snare, — 

All have passed from my sight, and are hidden away 

In the gloom that encircles the spiritless clay ; 

But the soul, — the immortal, — released from its bars, 

Has laid down life's burden and leapt to the stars, 

l 9 



20 MOTHER. 

Where the dear mother-love, all undimmed, unrepressed, 
Will be ours again when we enter our Rest. 

'Tis a comforting thought that earth's pathway was trod 
From the morn of her life, with the people of God j 
That when sorrow was deepest — when death sought her 

fold- 
She reached up her hand for the Father to hold. 
And we know that He clasped it, for, strengthened and 

sure, 
Her faith made her feel in His promise secure 
To the humble believer ; and long patient years 
Of suffering were spent without doubtings or fears ; 
And when, in Life's twilight, she asked for release, 
When, wearied, she prayed that her waiting might cease, 
The Saviour reached down as she slept on my breast, 
Unloosened her fetters, and called her to Rest. 

So quietly, softly, the summons was given, 
We knew not our loss till the portals of heaven 
Had oped to receive her, and waiting ones there 
Had greeted her coming with anthem and prayer. 
\nd she — oh ! she felt not our throbbings of pain, 
Nor marked our wild wish to recall her again ; 
For the voices of children, her darlings, her own, 
Enchanted her soul with their rapturous tone, 



MOTHER. 21 

While "daughter!" "wife!" "sister!" from loved ones 

again 
Broke soft on her spirit in joyful refrain. 
Her pilgrimage ended and heaven possessed, 
IVe, alone, feel the pang, she has entered her Rest. 



LEGEND OF THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

I have learned a simple legend, 

Never found in books of lore, 
Copied not from old tradition, 

Nor from classics read of yore ; 

But the breezes sang it to me 

With a low and soft refrain, 
While the golden leaves and scarlet 

Fluttered down to catch the strain. 

And the grand old trees above me, 
As their stately branches swayed, 

Threw across my couch of crimson 
More of sunlight than of shade. 

I had lain there dreaming, musing 
On the summer's vanished bloom, 

Wondering if each penciled leaflet 
Did not mark some flow'ret's tomb ; 

Thinking how each tree could tell me 
Many a tale of warrior's fame; 

22 






LEGEND OF THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

Gazing at the sky, and asking 

How the ''Indian Summer" came. 

Then methought a whispered cadence 
Stole from out the haunted trees, 

While the leaves kept dropping, dropping, 
To the music of the breeze. 

"I will tell thee," said the whisper, 

"What I've learned from Nature's book; 

For the sunbeams wrote this legend 
On the margin of a brook. 

" 'Tis about an Indian maiden, 
She the star-flower of her race, 

With a heart whose soft emotions 
Rippled through her soul-lit face. 

"All her tribe did homage to her, 
For her father was their chief; 

He was stern, and she forgiving, — 
He brought pain, and she relief. 

"And they called him 'Indian Winter,' 

All his actions were so cold ; 
Her they named the 'Indian Summer,' 

For she seemed a thread of gold 



2 3 



24 



LEGEND OF THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

" Flashing through her native forest, 
Beaming in the wigwam lone, 

Singing to the birds, her playmates, 
Till they warbled back her tone. 

" When the summer days were ended, 
And the chilling months drew near, 

When the clouds hung, dull and leaden, 
And the leaves fell, brown and sere, 

" Brought they to the chieftain's presence 
One, a ' pale-face,' young and brave, 

But whom youth nor manly valor 
Could from savage vengeance save. 

" ' Bring him forth !' in tones of thunder 
Thus the 'Indian Winter' cried, 

While the gentle ' Indian Summer' 
Softly flitted to his side. 

" When the tomahawk was lifted, 

And the scalping-knife gleamed high, 

Pride, revenge, and bloody hatred 
Glared within the warrior's eye; 

"And the frown upon his forehead 
Darker, deeper, sterner grew ; 



LEGEND OF THE INDIAN SUMMER. 25 

While the lowering clouds above them 
Hid the face of heaven from view. 

" ' Spare him ! oh, my father, spare him!' 

Friend and foe were thrust apart, 
While the golden thread of sunlight 

Twined around the red man's heart. 

" And her eye was full of pity, 

And her voice was full of love, 
As she told him of the wigwam 

On the hunting-ground above, 

" Where great Manito was talking, — 

She could hear him in the breeze ; 
How he called the ' pale-face' brother — 

Smoked with him the pipe of peace. 

" Then the warrior's heart relented, 

And the glittering weapon fell: 
1 For the maiden's sake,' he muttered, 

' Thou art pardoned, — fare thee well !' 

" And the sun, that would have slumbered 

Till the spring-time came again, 
Earthward from his garnered brightness 

Threw a flood of golden rain; 
3 



26 LEGEND OE THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

"And the 'Indian Summer' saw it, 
She, the gentle forest child ; 

And to ' Indian Winter' whispered, 
* See how Manito has smiled !' 

"All the tribe received the omen, 
And they called it by her name : 

Indian Summer, Indian Summer, 
It will ever be the same. 

"Though the ' pale-face' gave another 
To the lovely maid he won, 

Nature still receives her tribute 
From the wigwam of the sun. 

" Here, alone, this shining symbol 
Gilds the streamlet, warms the sod, 

For no Indian Summer cometh 
Save where Indian feet have trod." 



THE CHILDREN. 

You may talk of the exquisite paintings 

You guard with the tenderest care ; 
Of your statues of Parian marble, 

So faultless, so perfect, so rare ; 
But give me a call, and I'll show you 

Some pictures more fair to behold 
Than ever were drawn by the masters, 

Whose names down the ages have rolled. 

At Christmas I took down my statues, 

My Cupids and Psyches and all ; 
And the gloom of the place made me shudder 

As I turned to the desolate wall- 
Bright curls that the sunlight had garnished, 

Dark tresses, the midnight had bound, 
And mirth-loving eyes, all had vanished, 

While red lips could nowhere be found- 
But now they are back in their niches, 

My statues of value untold ; 
My pictures in ebony framings, 

And some sfet in amber and gold. 

27 



28 THE CHILDREN. 

The room has grown bright with their presence, 
The gloom and the silence have fled, 

For the crown of His sweet benediction 
Still rests on each innocent head. 

And the thought, as they gather each morning 

And murmur the prayer that He gave, 
That His dear, loving arms are around them, 

Makes my own sinking heart, ofttimes, brave. 
So I nestle down closely beside them, 

And trust, when the Saviour shall see 
The white souls that flutter about me, 

His blessing will touch even me. 

Am I faithful, I wonder, in tilling 

The soil of their hearts day by day? 
Will the seed I am patiently sowing 

Spring up but to wither away? 
The mold is not rocky nor barren, 

But tares may spring up — tares of sin ; 
Yet I trust to His care all their future, 

Who gathers the golden sheaves in. 



BABY MARGIE. 

Came she with the April dawning ; 

Such a tiny, tender thing, 
Little sisters thought a seraph 

Bore her earthward 'neath its wing. 
And they said her harp was heavy 

As her golden, starry crown, 
Else the kind bestowing angel 

Would have tried to bring it down. 

And they spoke in softest whispers 

When she nestled to my breast, 
Saying, as they gazed above them, 

" 'Twas so far she needeth rest." 
So she slumbered, Baby Margie, 

Dreaming of her native skies; 
This we knew, for, on awaking, 

Heaven still lingered in her eyes. 

April flow' ret ! Spring's first blossom ! 

How our thoughts would onward rove, 
Picturing, from her fair unfolding, 

What the perfect flower might prove ! 

3* 2 9 



3 o 



BABY MARGIE. 

Thinking how new joy would thrill us, 
Deeper transports still be stirred, 

When her trembling voice came freighted 
With the first sweet, lisping word. 

Musing how her step uncertain 

Soon our guidance would repay ; 
Tender feet ! Life's paths were rugged, — 

All too rough to lure her stay. 
So she wandered, Baby Margie, 

Upward to the golden strand, — 
Left the hearts that could not hold her, 

Reaching toward the spirit-land. 

Earth seems lone and drear without her, 

Home is robbed of half its bliss, 
For our hearts' exultant morning 

Broke with her awakening kiss. 
Faith looks up, but Love still turneth, 

Bruised and bleeding, to the dust ; 
And, in tones of wildest anguish, 

Cries to Him for perfect trust. 

Lips whose gentlest pressure thrilled us, 
Cheek and brow so saintly white, 



BABY MARGIE. 

Underneath the church-yard daisies 
They have hid ye all from sight. 

Though we yielded back her spirit 
Trustingly to God who gave, 

'Twas as if our hearts were buried 
When we left our darling's grave. 

There's an empty crib beside us, 

And the wrappings still remain, 
Showing, from their careful folding, 

Where a precious form has lain. 
Yestereve a string of coral, 

In my searching, met my view, 
And a half-worn, crimson stocking 

Prisoned in a dainty shoe. 

When the children's sports are over, 

When their mimic work is done, 
When they come and kneel before me, 

Hushed and solemn, one by one, — 
When their low-voiced "Our Father" 

Meekly from their young lips fall, 
And they rise and wait in silence, 

Then I miss her most of all. 

'Twas her lips, while yet she lingered, 
Claimed the last, the warmest kiss, 



3* 



3* 



BABY MARGIE. 

And their saddened, wistful glances 
Tell me truly what they miss. 

And they wonder if she wants me 
In her home so strange and new ; 

'Tis a point I cannot answer, 
For I often wonder, too. 

Though I know the seraphs bore her 

To the mansions of the blest ; 
Still, I think, she must have missed me 

When she left my longing breast. 
And I trust some angel-mother, 

Followed by her pleading eyes, 
Took her gently to her bosom 

When my cherub reached the skies. 

Father-love, I know, is holy : 

In the heavenly Parent's arms 
All His spotless lambs are gathered, 

Free from pain or earth's alarms. 
But the thought that some fond mother, 

Yearning for her babe below, 
Clasped my little orphan -angel 

To her heart, with love aglow, 
Makes me feel that naught is wanting 

To perfect her bliss above ; 



BABY MARGIE. 

For her gentle, trusting spirit 
Needs a mother's tenderest love. 

Kind Old Year ! thou gavest our treasure 

With the opening buds of spring, 
And our grateful spirits thanked thee 

For thy vernal offering. 
But, alas ! thou couldst not leave her 

To the chance of coming woe, 
So thou blessed her dreamless slumber 

Ere thy summons came to go. 

Fond Old Year ! Such tearful memories 

Bind my mourning soul to thee ! 
In thy arms my baby tasted 

Life and immortality. 
Thou and she have gone together, — 

Crossed the bounds of Time's dark swell, - 
Therefore let my benediction 

Mingle with thy parting knell. 



33 



B* 



TO A NIGHT-BLOOMING CERE US. 

Beautiful flower, with petals white, 
That only blooms in the hush of night, 
That never reveals to the sunlight bold 
The inner beauty thy petals hold, 
As I sit to night, keeeping watch o'er thee, 
Thou seem'st to blossom alone for me. 



I have known some hearts like thine own, fair one, 
That never would ope to the glaring sun ; 
Whose wealth of sweetness was treasured up 
Like the golden threads in thy opening cup ; 
Who had never a throb nor a glow at all, 
Except for the heart that received them all. 

And some hearts I have known that the gathering 

gloom 
Has seemed to call into perfect bloom ; 
Whose garnered brightness with magic power 
Came blossoming out in life's darkest hour; 
34 



TO A NIGHT-BLOOMING CERE US. 35 

Who waited, like thee and the stars on high, 
Ere they gave their splendor to earth and sky. 



Beautiful flower, in thy robe of white, 

Thou seem' st like an angel of peace to-night ; 

But, like joys that have vanished, or fond hopes dead, 

Thy wondrous beauty will all have fled 

When I wake at morn, and I'll only see 

The corpse of the flower that bloomed for me. 

But, like other memories I treasure there, 
And hide in my heart with a miser's care, 
In that inner temple, that none may see 
Except when I lift the veil for thee, 
I will hold the thought of our converse sweet, 
With hope and rapturous joy replete. 

For we've talked together, thou and I, 
When none but God and ourselves was nigh ; 
I have touched my cheek to thy snowy tips, 
And breathed a prayer on thy opening lips ; 
And thou, in turn, to my weary heart 
Didst strength and comfort and faith impart. 

And now I will bid thee a fond "good-night," 
With thy petals spread t as for upward flight ; 



3 6 TO A NIGHT-BLOOMING CERE US. 

And my thoughts shall be of an angel flower 
That blooms above in a fairer bower, 
Where the dear ones, waiting, may turn to see 
The beautiful bud that unclosed for me. 



THE ELDER BROTHER. 

AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO DR. JOSEPH A. SMITH, OF 
FORT MADISON, IOWA. 

There are heroes in war, there are heroes in story, 

Whose courage, undaunted when leaden rain fell, 
Has covered their names with an unfading glory, 

Whose fullness the dim, distant ages will tell. 
But the theme of my song went not forth with the rattle 

Of steel-bristling bayonet, bugle and drum, 
But stood on the ramparts of life's changeful battle 

As sentinel, guarding the bulwarks of Home. 

They are graven in blood upon history's pages, 

The names of those martyrs who hallowed our sod ; 
But heroes like mine pass unsung through the Ages 

To fill the first ranks at the roll-call of God. 
There are laurels awaiting the conqueror leaving 

The red field of carnage where triumph was given, 
But none see the garlands the angels are weaving 

For him whose grand deeds are his bay-wreath in 
heaven. * 

4 37 



38 THE ELDER BROTHER. 

O mariner ! you whom the waves have swept over 

And scooped from your heart its glad sunlight and 
bloom, 
When the blackness of darkness around seemed to hover, 

And yawning beneath was a fathomless tomb, 
AVast succored, like me, from Despair's ruthless ocean, 

Whose billows of Doubt left nor compass nor guide? 
Wast shielded, sustained, by a brother's devotion, 

Whose love was the life-boat that weathered the 
tide? 

Or when, 'mid earth's trials, the night gathered o'er 
you, 

And, strength and heart failing, weak flesh could not 
stand, 
Still constant and true did a light gleam before you, 

Held o'er the rough paths by a brother's firm hand ? 
If so, you can measure the depth of my feeling 

For one whose devotion has never grown dim, 
Nor chide the wild impulse that often comes stealing, 

When gratitude prompts, to do homage to him. 

It was not a father, a sister, a mother, 

That made intercession that Mercy might win ; 

Our pardon was sealed by a dear " elder brother," 
Who gave His own life as a ransom for sin. 



THE ELDER BROTHER. 39 

With earth-love, earth-memories clinging around it, 
This name to our great Mediator was given 

To show the sweet tie of affection that bound it 
To Him who still pleads our forgiveness in heaven. 



MADELINE BOWER. 

She perished in beauty, 

As withers a rose 
When its delicate petals 

Begin to unclose. 
She passed from among us, 

And left us to pine 
For the treasure we could not 

With calmness resign. 
The light of our home 

Has grown dim since the hour 
It lost the dear presence 

Of Madeline Bower. 

Her voice was like music 

That trembles along, 
When the last strain is sung 

Of a soul-thrilling song. 
So witchingly mellow, 

You'd stand by her side, 
And drink in its echo 

Long after it died. 
40 



MADELINE BOWER. 

Now vainly we list 

At the still, twilight hour 
For the notes of our song-bird — 

Lost Madeline Bower. 

Her tresses of light 

Seemed o'er marble to flow, 
For her brow could have rivaled 

The purest of snow. 
Ah ! none but bereaved ones, 

Who've wept o'er the clay, 
Can know of our pangs 

When 'twas hidden away. 
One tress from its sisters 

Was severed that hour : 
'Twas all we might claim 

Of sweet Madeline Bower. 

Oh, would they could waft us — 

Our treasures above — 
Some tender remembrance, 

Some token of love, — 
A mystical sign 

That they do not forget ; 
A blessed assurance 

They yearn for us yet ! 



42 



MADELINE BOWER. 

Or is it designed 

That we hear not nor see 
One trace of our loved ones 

Till death sets us free ? 
Do we pass through the vale, 

With its shadow and blight, 
That the glory of heaven 

May burst on our sight ? 
If so, how ecstatic, 

How rapturous the hour 
Our freed souls are welcomed 

By Madeline Bower ! 



HOLD THE LIGHT. 

Ho ! thou traveler on life's highway, 

Moving carelessly along ; 
Pausing not to note the darkness 

Lowering o'er the struggling throng ; 
Waiting not to mark how feebly 

Some are laboring in the fight, 
Bending on thee wistful glances, — 

Turn aside, and hold the light ! 

Look ! upon thy right a brother 

Wanders blindly from the way ; 
And upon thy left a sister, 

Frail and erring, turns astray. 
One kind word, perchance, may save them, 

Guide their wayward steps aright ; 
Canst thou, then, withhold thy counsel ? 

No ! but fly, and hold the light ! 

Hark ! a feeble wail of anguish 
Bursts from the advancing throng, 

43 



44 



HOLD THE LIGHT. 

And a little child is groping 

Through the shadows deep and long. 
'Tis a timid orphan, sinking 

'Neath misfortune's withering blight; 
Friends, home, love, are all denied her : 

Oh, in pity hold the light ! 

Not alone in heathen darkness, 

Where the pagan bows the knee, 
Worshiping his senseless image 

With a blind idolatry, — 
Where no blessed gospel teachings 

E'er illume the soul's dark night, 
Comes the cry to listless mortals, 

Wild and pleading, " Hold the light !' 

Here as well, in life's broad highway, 

Are benighted wanderers found ; 
And if all the strong would aid them, 

Lights would glimmer all around. 
Acts of love and deeds of kindness 

Then would make our pathway bright, 
And we'd have no need of calling, 

u Ho! thou traveler, hold the light !" 



A TEMPERANCE POEM. 

INSCRIBED TO THE LADIES. 

Mr. Lionel Lightfoot, a man, you must know, 

Whose life had been upright and blameless, 
To the capital's chamber came three years ago 

From a county that here shall be nameless. 
He was loyal at heart, but all tyranny spurned, 

And, when comrades endeavored to prove him, 
Allegiance to Alcohol's power he spurned, — 

Neither jeers nor persuasions could move him. 
Though at club-room or bar they would oftentimes meet, 

He ne'er treated, nor could be entreated to treat. 

And now 'twas mid-winter, — the question was up 
To legally sanction or banish the cup. 
The ladies had come, with their beauty and grace, 
To cheer the desponding and brighten the place. 
Discussions grew warm, but all pleading was vain, 
For Alcohol triumphed, and Whisky again 

45 



46 A ^TEMPERANCE POEM. 

Would desolate hearthstones, — bring Want and Despair 
To dear ones once guarded with tenderest care. 

And Lightfoot lamented, — his mother's calm smile 
Seemed resting upon him, — her voice, too, the while, 
Those soft, tender tones to remembrance so dear, 
Sweet, earnest, and true, floated back to his ear : 
" My son, if they sanction this blight of the soul, 
Forget not my teachings — beware of the bowl !" 

The day had departed, the twilight had fled, 

At the still hour of midnight the Old Year lay dead. 

The breeze sighed its requiem, the ocean its moan, 

For the aged and mighty who perished alone ; 

But the sun of the morning rose fair o'er the scene 

Where, in night's fearful silence, the death-pall had been. 

And now it was New Year, — "a happy New Year," — 

And young Lightfoot were guilty of treason 
If he failed to the fair ones in person to pay 

His dues, with the dues of the season. 
So, calling on Fairface, an exquisite dandy, 
An ardent believer in spirits — of brandy, 
He found him perturbed — in a barbarous passion, — 
His moustache had been trimmed quite too close for the 
fashion ; 



A TEMPERANCE POEM. 47 

His head, too — oh, shocking to add to the list ! — ■ 
Two hairs on the left the Macassar had missed. 



But Lightfoot restored him : " The former," he said, 

"Looked so fore\gi\—distangui "(a beautiful red 

He fain would have added, but paused, lest the ire 
Of his comrade might set his adornment on fire.) 
Then, waiting till Fairface made smooth as a die 
For the fiftieth time his " miwaculous tie," 
With assurance his collar just touched his goatee 
Without varying, in distance, the slightest degree, 
With cane between gloves of invisible green, 
They called on Miss Mabel — society's queen ; 
And, listening the while to the lively narrations 
Of her numerous calls and her morning libations, 
" Your health !" cries ma belle; returns Lightfoot, " Ex- 
cuse me, 
I never indulge." " What ! on New Year's refuse me f 
Politeness demands it; beside" (soft and low), 
" Champagne is so perfectly harmless, you know." 

Ah, woman, fair temptress, thou knew'st not the while 
The doom that was sealed by that innocent smile; 
Or how fatal the spell in that voice, that was given 
To lure man from vice And direct him to heaven. 



4 S A TEMPERANCE POEM. 

Thou saw' st not the phantoms that clutched at the bowl, 
Nor the serpents that fastened their fangs in his soul ; 
Thou heardst not the clank of the chains that were wound 
By fiends that kept mocking the spirit they bound. 

So Lightfoot was tempted, and yielded at last, 

Beguiled by this siren of beauty ; 
And, quitting her presence, he carried away 

Her smile of approval as booty. 
A dangerous trophy, these smiles of the fair; 
They melted his good resolutions to air ; 
For though he had reasoned, "I'll only partake 
This once of the wine, for the fair charmer's sake," 
He was sadly mistaken, — the breach had been made, 
The fortress surrendered, its inmates betrayed ; 
The noble resolves that had guarded the tower 
Where Faith held her torch in temptation's dark hour, 
The purposes high that had stamped on his brow 
The glory of manhood, oh, where were they now? 

But why follow on with the twain as they flit 

From bower to bower, partaking? 
Or tell how the feeble resolves of the one 

Were seized with an ague of shaking? 
How, long before night-fall, he fancied his brain 
Was dancing a reel on a circular plain ? 



A TEMPERANCE POEM. 49 

How houses inverted, in warlike array, 

Wheeled backward and forth in an endless chasse ? 

We pass these sad pictures, nor linger to tell 

How, step after step, from true manhood he fell. 

How at first he took naught but the choicest of wine, — 

Some ancient Madeira, or rum superfine ; 

How he drank but with gentlemen, such as would deign 

To touch no cheap brandy nor third-rate champagne. 

Behold him, at last, in some vice-crowded den, 

Where skulk the crouched forms of what once ranked as 

men; 
Where the pestilent fumes from each whisky-scorched 

throat 
The pure air of heaven with plague-spots have smote ; 
Where Malice, Pollution, and Wretchedness teem, 
And Guilt stalks among them to mock and blaspheme. 
There see him, the victim of Woman's soft smile, 
Debauched and corrupted, degraded and vile. 

Years pass, and again with our "pillars of State" 
Is the same question pending in earnest debate ; 
The fair ones are listeners ; Miss Mabel has come 
To hear of the darkness in many a home, — 
Of the desolate hearthstones the rum-fiend has made, 
Of promises broken and loved ones betrayed, 
c 5 



5 o A TEMPERANCE POEM. 

She listens — grows weary — departing, at last, 
She hastes to her chamber to think of the Past. 
Though languid, she wooes a calm slumber in vain, 
For the sleep that should soothe her but frenzies her brain. 

She dreams — 'tis of Lightfoot : she tempts him to drink. 
He quaffs at her bidding, then ceases to shrink 
From frequent indulgence of evils the worst; 
His hopes are all blasted, his life is accurst ; 
She sees him descending from honor — renown — 
And sinking to ruin — down — hopelessly down. 
There, wrestling with rum-fiends, in fury he raves, 
Like a soul reft of reason, on life's maddening waves. 
Half palsied with fright, 'mid the demons he stands, 
And wards off their blows with his skeleton hands. 
His eyes start with horror, and fearfully gloat 
On blades, newly whetted, that point at his throat. 
He shudders and cringes from serpents that hiss 
And dart their forked tongues from their slimy abyss ; 
And, reeling from terror, he howls in his pains, 
As devils incarnate stand welding his chains; 
While one, a' pale imp, the grim valet of Death, 
With fagots of sulphur is firing his breath. 
O horror ! it blazes ! it seethes to his brain ! 
His heart-strings have cracked — the blood boils in each 
vein ! 



A TEMPERANCE POEM. 51 

A shudder — a gasp — a wild effort to speak — 
And Miss Mabel awakes with a hideous shriek. 

O ladies ! dear ladies ! when next round the wine 

Your delicate fingers caressingly twine, 

When, like a soft blessing, the breath of your lips 

Floats over and hallows the juice ere he sips, 

Just call the crouched form of poor Lightfoot to view, 

And know that the dream of Miss Mabel was true. 

Then, by your allurements, teach man to refrain, 

And prove that your charms were bestowed not in vain ; 

Let your spotless example illustrate the plan 

That woman was made as a help-meet for man, 

To warn him from treading the pathway of sin 

By the beautiful love-light that glows from within. 

And, oh ! as ye muse oti that Eden above, 

Whence spirits departed are gazing in love, 

And guarding their kindred, who, chained by the clay, 

Are prone by the tempter to wander astray, 

A father's fond blessing may greet you, the while, 

A sister bend over your couch with a smile, 

A mother, in accents of rapturous joy, 

May sing how your warnings have rescued her boy. 

Then woman, O woman 1 thy mission fulfill ! 
Know man is the subject — the slave to thy will! 



52 



A TEMPERANCE POEM. 

Thou wast given to guide him, — his beacon and star 
To cheer when beside him and gleam from afar. 
Then keep thy soul white, for one shadow of sin 
May dim the bright taper that burneth within ; 
And vain are his struggles life's billows above, 
When the beacon goes out in the light-house of love. 



IN MEMORIAE 

WILLIAM G., ELDEST SON OF W. W. BELKNAP, SECRETARY 
OF WAR. 

Touch the harp with gentlest finger, let a strain of ten- 
derest feeling 

Pulsate through its flowing numbers, all its sweetest 
chords revealing. 
Let the tone be low and trembling, as if seraphs 
hovered nigh ; 

Music such as floods the portal of the clime we call im- 
mortal : 
Such as soothed his deathless spirit when he closed his 
weary eye. 

At the dawning — in the morning— in the sunrise of his 

being, 
Ere his step had lost its lightness or his eye grew dull of 
seeing, 
Ere his sunny brow was shadowed by earth's sorrow 
or its gloom, 

5* 53 



54 IN MEMO RI AM. 

Ere a score of years had crowned him, thus the silent 
Reaper found him, 
Like a golden bud of promise, blighted in its early 
bloom. 

It was meet that loving faces should, in silence, gather 

near him, 
And that kindred hearts should murmur blessings as they 

strove to cheer him ; 
Yet their yearnings could not hold him; all their 

pleading cries were vain ; 
And the blinding tears kept starting at the sacred hour 

of parting, 
For this cherished household treasure that no longer 

might remain. 

And the father, bowed and stricken, — ah ! his woe was 

past repeating 
When the hand he pressed so fondly gave no more an 

answering greeting; 
When no loving voice came trembling from the cold 

lips white and dumb. 
May he bow in true submission, musing on the clime 

elysian, 
Where the angel watcher whispers down the shining 

pathway, " Come !" 



IN MEMORIAM. 



55 



May the grass grow green above him, resting on his lowly- 
pillow, 

And in quiet sadness o'er him, bend the constant, pitying 
willow ! 
May soft zephyrs sing low dirges as they pass his 
narrow bed ! 

May the gently-falling showers, as they kiss the drooping 
flowers, 

Bid them bloom and shed fresh fragrance on the turf 
above his head ! 



JOSEY'S BIRTHDAY. 

" Mamma, tell me 'bout Good Friday," 
Lisped the prattler at my knee, 

With his sparkling eyes uplifted, 
Laughing in his roguish glee. 

"Is't a pretty story, mamma? 

Won't you tell it right away? 
Take me up, I want to hear it, 

Then I'll run along and play." 

But I could not tell the story 

As the solemn dirges fell, 
Tolling through the day that darkened 

With.. the crucifixion knell, — 

Could not tell him how Redemption 

By a boundless love was won, 
And a grand Atonement proffered 
Through a well-beloved Son ! 
56 



JOSEY'S BIRTHDAY. 57 

So I said, with arms around him, 
" Yes, 'tis good, for you must know 

That a little blue-eyed baby 
Came to me four years ago. 



"Just four years to-day, my darling, 
Since you oped your wondering eyes, 

'Mid the solemn hush that Nature 
Keeps for our great Sacrifice. 



" Oh, the memories that clustered 
As that hallowed day wore on ! 

Little heads my breast had pillowed, - 
Little dimpled arms had gone. 



" Little feet, that ran to meet me, 
Lying still and white and cold ; 

Little eyes, that watched my coming, 
Hid beneath the church-yard mold ! 

"Then when vesper-hymns outfloating 
Told the day was well-nigh spent, 

'Only Son,' the singers chanted, 
And my heart'responded, Lent, 
c* 



58 JOSEY'S BIRTHDAY. 

" Was it but the distant shadow 
Of His sufferings — of His Cross — 

Made me fold my baby closer, 
Shuddering at my fancied loss ? 

" Who can tell? The Father knoweth : 
Lent, not given, are all that come; 

When 'tis best that they should leave us, 
He will gently call them home. 

" But, my pet, you have not listened ! 

Mamma's boy is off at play ! 
Thread of sunlight, gleaming, flashing, 

Through this sacred, Hallowed Day." 



A WELCOME TO OUR "JO." 

(MISS KATE PERRY, OF KEOKUK, IOWA.) 

A welcome back to her who went 

Abroad for her own pleasure, 
Yet generously sent her friends 

An overflowing measure ! 
We grasp her hand with right good will, 

While memory fondly lingers 
Upon the pictures sketched for "home" 

By these same busy fingers. 

The Rhine, in all its winding course, 

Ne'er met a happier rover, 
Nor Drusus, in his youthful prime, 

A more adoring lover. 
And this is why the rippling waves 

In murmurs seemed to bless her, 
While Drusus reached his shadowy arms, 

Imploring, to caress her. 

I wonder, on those moonlit nights, 
When sky and stream were golden, 

59 



60 A WELCOME TO OUR "JO." 

As she, a listener, heard entranced, 
Some legend tender — olden, — 

If her own voice went floating out 
With all its wondrous power, 

Awaking many an echoing tone 
At that entrancing hour ! 

Did siren with the golden hair, 

On distant heights appearing, 
Still her soft notes of deep despair 

And give attentive hearing ? 
Did voyagers on passing barks, 

Approaching late and early, 
Drink in the sweet, bewildering strains 

Of our own matchless Loreley ? 

The prayer went up for heavenly care 

Through storm and wave to bring her, 
For scores of hearts have learned to love 

Our sweet impassioned singer. 
Her life has proved, in war and peace, 

For dear ones fondly caring, 
"The bravest are the tenderest, 

The loving are the daring." 

Friends, read to her the parable 
(She's read it oft unbidden) 



A WELCOME TO OUR "JO." 61 

Of talents graciously bestowed, — 

Of one, too, that was hidden. 
If "good and faithful" she would prove, 

Let not her gifts lie sleeping ; 
Let Voice and Pen improve the trust 

Confided to her keeping. 



A DIRGE FOR HORACE "GREELEY. 

Weep, weep, O my country ! the cord has been severed 

That bound the great heart of a statesman to thee ; 
The spirit has fled that so nobly endeavored 

To save from Disunion the land of the Free. 
The beautiful rod and the strong staff are broken, 

A gem from the casket of glory is reft ; 
He is gone, but his eloquent words as a token 

Of genius unrivaled shall ever be left. 

'Mid the storms of the past, though the billows swept 
o'er him, 

He stood, all undaunted by tempest or tide ; 
For the Nation, his idol, lay bleeding before him, 

And he sprang to his duty and knelt by her side. 
The Union, the home of the brave and true-hearted, 

Half palsied through fear by War's startling command, 
With white arms upraised, all her courage departed, 

In silent despair gave the statesman her hand. 

As tender as brave, with a patriot's devotion, 
He held and sustained her till danger was past; 
62 



A DIRGE FOR HORACE GREELEY. 63 

With whispers of cheer checked the rising commotion, 
And led her, unharmed, to a haven at last. 

And when the fierce roar of the battle was over, 
And Peace brooded down over hill-side and plain, 

He gathered the bands we thought scattered forever, 
And tried, with firm hand, to unite them again. 



The boon of a Nation we claimed as his dower, — 

Of her he had struggled so nobly to save ; 
But friends turned aside at the hope-freighted hour, 

And freemen bestowed on their Greeley — a grave. 
Yet it was not defeat, — he, unmurmuring, bore it, 

Till stung by the venom of taunting and sneer ; 
Then shrank his great heart from the clutches that tore it. 

While mind fell a victim to torturing fear. 

Ah, friends ! ye should learn that all brave hearts aie 
tender ; 

That heroes stand firm 'mid the clash of the sword ; 
But spirits like fris may be forced to surrender 

When the weapon ye use is a low, scathing word. 
I tell you 'twere kinder if blood had flowed freely, 

Had our martyr been slain by an enemy's hand, 
Than to sting him to madness, — to offer our Greeley 

A sacrifice here, in his own native land ! 



6 4 



A DIRGE FOR HORACE GREELEY. 



Yet worth cannot die; and, on history's pages, 

His record will tell what he dared for our sake ; 
And proudly reveal to the oncoming ages 

How a statesman can live and a true luart can break. 
Oh, that generous heart ! it was full to o'erflowing 

When the wife of his youth and his country were there ; 
But the one had passed on, and the other was going 

Far, far from his reach, and he died of despair. 



LAKE MICHIGAN. 

WRITTEN DURING THE JUBILEE AT CHICAGO. 

While thousands throng each crowded mart, 

And gaze around in mute surprise, 
I turn with an adoring heart 

To thee, fair mirror of the skies. 
Yet not in silence can I pour 

My full heart out, fair Lake, to thee, 
So, humbly kneeling on thy shore, 

I chant thy praise, my Jubilee. 

The purple clouds are all drawn back 

From heaven's blue vault, that I may trace 
Its distant verge, — its shining track 

Held to thy heart in close embrace. 
The roseate flush that tinged the sky 

Has slowly turned to burnished gold, 
And every wave that hurries by 

Clasps all of sunlight it can hold. 

I saw thee not, Lake Michigan, 
When all aglow — a sheet of flame ; 

6* 65 



66 LAKE MICHIGAN. 

When forth the frenzied people ran 
To shriek for help — to- call thy name. 

Chicago, thine own cherished bride, 
Thou mightst not succor — couldst not save ; 

But fettered lay as flames spread wide 
And scooped for her a yawning grave. 

The loss was ours ; we mourned with thee 

That she should fall, — a nation mourned ; 
Nor deemed we then we e'er should see 

Her hopes restored, her strength returned. 
"Forever lost, forever gone !" 

Came through thy murmuring wavelets' swell ; 
" Forever lost, forever gone !" 

We echoed back, — her funeral knell. 

Yet now, so soon, a wondering throng 

Crowd to thy shore in hushed surprise, 
And there behold (grand theme for song) 

Chicago, Phcenix-like, arise. 
A world lamented when she fell, 

And now, 'neath turret, tower, and dome, 
A multitude of voices tell 

Her year of Jubilee has come. 

Chicago, City of the Lake, 
Bride of this lovely inland sea, 



LAKE MICHIGAN. 67 

Thy resurrection-glories wake 

A dream of what thou yet shalt be. 
Undaunted in thy darkest hour, 

Thyself hast brought the awakening dawn ; 
Thy energy has been the power 

That led, and still shall lead thee on. 



THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL. 

Fever sapped my very life-blood, frenzy fired my tortured 
brain, 

And the friends who watched beside me, felt their linger- 
ing hopes were vain. 

I was going — going from them, all unconscious of their 
fears ; 

Hastening to the Silent Valley, deaf to moans and blind 
to tears. 

But a change was wrought at midnight — the destroyer's 
hand was stayed, 

And the frenzy and the fever fled, affrighted and dis- 
mayed. 

And the dear ones who had trembled as I neared the 
mystic goal, 

Spoke in glad, rejoicing whispers as light slumber held 
control ; 

All, save one, the youngest — fairest — gentle friend of 
other years, 

Who knelt reverently beside me, and returned her thanks 
with tears. 
6S 



THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL. 69 

Since the sunny days of childhood we had known each 

other well, 
And each fleeting year we numbered but increased love's 

magic spell ; 
But, till sickness felled me, never did her acts of love 

divine 
Seem to drop, like gems unnumbered, from a great ex- 

haustless mine. 
With a sister's sweet devotion would her young head o'er 

me bow, 
As she bathed my cheeks with kisses, and with tear-drops 

dewed my brow, 
Like a fond and gentle mother on her bosom lay my 

head, 
And, in soft, endearing accents, speak of happy hours 

long fled. 



When the dreadful dream was ended, when delirium's 
spell was broke, 

When, with all an infant's weakness, I to consciousness 
awoke, 

I could see the form of Emma round my darkened cham- 
ber glide, 

And could hear her sweet voice breathing soothing whis- 
pers by my side* 



70 THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL. 

Not till stars were shining brightly in the blue sky over- 
head 

Would she leave me to my slumbers with a Sibyl's noise- 
less tread, 

Then, within the room adjoining, sat she with attentive 
ear, 

Ready, at the slightest murmur, at my bedside to ap- 
pear. 



Well, one eve my eye had wandered from the bright and 

cheerful light 
That came streaming through the doorway, to the wall so 

smooth and white, 
When methought I heard a footfall ('twas not Emma's, I 

was sure) 
Stepping lightly through the hall and pausing at the inner 

door. 
It was opened — oh, so softly I could scarcely hear the 

sound ; 
Had a human hand unclosed it, or were spirits stalking 

round ? 
While I looked and thought and wondered, lo ! there 

glided from the hall, 
With a stealthy tread, a shadow, and stood waiting on 

the wall. 



THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL. 71 

"Twas as handsome as the "photos" done by Emerson 
last week ; 

Its two lips were slightly parted, as though just about to 
speak ; 

And its eyes — I lost their color with their most bewitch- 
ing flash, 

Yet I saw it sported whiskers and a slightly-curled mous- 
tache ; 

Then its nose was sharp and classic, — it was finely built 
and tall, v 

And a full round chin and forehead had this shadow on 
the wall. 



Quick before my wondering vision did a second shadow 

glide ; 
It excelled the air in fleetness till it reached the other's 

side. 
Ah ! full well that face, that figure, and those graceful 

curls were known, 
For, with sportive pencil, oft had I the self-same outline 

drawn. 
And, so great was my amazement, I my voice could scarce 

suppress 
When I saw these phantom figures meeting with a warm 

caress ; 



72 THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL. 

And — my memory here grows faithless — I can only just 

recall 
That I saw four lips of shadow meet upon the pictured 

wall. 



When the pantomime was ended, I grew restless from sur- 
prise, 
And, remembering not my weakness, I in vain essayed 

to rise ; 
But the shadows heard my movement, and they fled before 

my gaze 
With the swiftness of the lightning, choosing wisely 

different ways; 
And when, in a moment after, bent a fair face o'er my 

bed, 
Eyes were closed and breast was heaving: "Sleeping 

sweetly," Emma said; 
Never dreamed she that the sleeper had been witness to 

it all, 
Or, more truly, to the tableau of the shadows on the wall. 



Often have I seen the substance of the shadow first since 

then, 
And no nobler heart is numbered in the family of men. 



THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL. 



73 



He is worthy of his Emma, who, now standing by his 

side, 
Does not note his beaming glance of mingled tenderness 

and pride. 
With one hand upon his shoulder and the other clasped 

in mine, 
She's been coaxing for a poem about " Charles and Em- 

meline ;" 
And I've quickly snatched my pencil for the first time to 

recall 
To the twain the summer's eve I saw the shadows on the 

wall. 



LINES 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO MY FATHER'S FRIEND, HON. 
D. F. MILLER. 

Dear friend, 'twas not thy word of praise, 
Bestowed upon my simple lays, 
That woke, as if by magic art, 
A thrill responsive in my heart. 
'Twas the fond mention of a word 
That all my tenderest feelings stirred, — 
A name the Past endeared to thee, 
And fraught with love and trust to me. 

His step, his touch, his vanished tone 
Seem mingling often with thine own. 
The teacher, as in days of yore, 
Repeats his sage instructions o'er; 
The pupil, in the flush of youth, 
Lists to those golden words of truth, 
And dreams such dreams as manhood may 
When proud ambition points his way. 
74 



LINES. 75 

Ah ! neither then had locks of white ! 
He, on life's grand meridian height, 
Thou, with thy powers as yet untried, 
And I a prattler at thy side. 
It seems so strange to see thee now 
With frosts of age upon thy brow, 
Yet sweet to know thy love for him 
Has never faltered nor grown dim. 

How much they gain of heavenly lore, 
Our loved and lost who "go before" ! 
The jasper walls will brighter glow 
When from them lean the forms we know. 
Our foretaste of celestial bliss 
Will be a welcoming clasp and kiss; 
Our recompense for every pain 
Will be this "gathering home" again. 

And wilt thou not hold converse sweet 
Where constant friends their vows repeat? 
Where change can mar, nor time can dim, 
Wilt thou not learn again of him? 
With the deep mystery of the skies 
Unveiled before thy wondering eyes, 
What guide more meet, if choice be given, 
To lead thee*to the highest heaven ? 



WHAT ARE THE SNOW-FLAKES? 

Say, whence come the snow-flakes — the pure, fleecy snow- 
flakes, 

That flutter so softly, so tremblingly by? 
Are they foam from the ocean of ether above us, 

Or petals from roses that blow in the sky? 
Do seraphs who wander beside the still waters, 

Or linger, entranced, in fair bowers above, 
Keep culling the leaves of the blossoms around them 

To scatter them earthward as tokens of love ? 

Are they down, that the beautiful Angel of Summer, 

At parting, so noiselessly shakes from her wings ? 
Or heralds sent forth by the glittering Frost-King 

To tell of the jewels he lavishly brings? 
Oh ! I sometimes half dream, as I watch the flakes falling, 

That 'tis Purity's self gliding down from the skies, 
Till, meeting our earth-damps of sin and pollution, 

They melt her to tears and of pity she dies. 

76 



THE BABY. 

All this blessed summer morning, 
With the golden sunlight round me, 
Has my heart bowed down, o'erburdened 

With its mournful tenderness, — 
With this longing for the baby- 
That for weary months has bound me, 
For the look her blue eyes gave me, 

And her winning, fond caress. 

I have heard some grief is deeper: 
That of mourning ones still yearning 
For the brave hearts stilled forever 

'Mid the clash of war's alarms, 
But I know no sadder picture 
Than fond memory, slowly turning 
From the past, to gaze in silence 

On a mother's empty arms. 

Oh, they told me, those who knew not, 
That I would not miss her ever, — 
Would not always start expectant 

7* 77 



7 8 THE BABY. 

At the mention of her name ; 
But as many moons have vanished 
Since the Father bade us sever, 
As her brief existence numbered, 

And the void seems just the same. 

Often, as the night advanceth, 
From my troubled sleep upstarting, 
Am I roused by what seem echoes 

Of my baby's plaintive cry. 
And I catch familiar accents 
From my trembling lips departing, — 
Whispers of some name endearing, 

Or some soothing lullaby. 

And my spirit sinks when fadeth 
This, my slumber's bright creating, 
Till Faith breathes, " Her fleeting life 

Was but a glimpse of heaven to thee. 
There in changeless, endless beauty 
Is thy angel babe awaiting 
To be folded to thy bosom 

Through a long eternity." 

So I gaze off with the dawning, 

To where day in light is breaking, — 

Where the white gleam of the marble 



THE BABY. 

Tells me some death's waves have crossed ; 
And I muse, without a shudder, 
On that sleep that hath no waking, 
For I know it must o'ertake me 

Ere I see the loved and lost. 

Oh, I trust they'll lay my ashes 
Close beside this faded blossom ! 
Would my arms might twine around her, 

And her lips to mine be pressed ! 
'Twere so sweet to think the casket 
Might be folded to my bosom, 
That our dust might not be parted 

In that deep, unbroken rest ! 



79 



OCTOBER. 

Have you seen a gentle maiden 

Flitting down your forest aisles, 
With her shining tresses flowing, 

And her red lips wreathed with smiles? 
With the golden leaves of autumn 

Round her white brow lightly pressed, 
And its modest crimson berries 

Blushing on her virgin breast ? 

Have you heard her breezy footfalls 

Trembling through the rustling grass? 
Have you caught her mellow whispers 

To the song-birds as they pass ? 
Have you marked the wondrous brightness 

Beaming from her tender eye, 
When the rippling streamlets murmured 

Blessings as she glided by? 

Yes, you've seen her, fair October: 
Since she sought your forest aisles, 
So 



OCTOBER. 

She has lightened hill and valley 
With the glory of her smiles. 

She has crossed your babbling river, 
Lingered on your wild-flower track, 

Until now the gates of cloud-land 
Softly ope to woo her back. 

She has floated, floated upward, 

Over meadow, stream, and wood, 
Till her golden hair is dabbled 

In the sunset's crimson blood. 
She has breathed her latest blessing, 

She has wrought her parting spell ; 
Waning autumn's benediction, — 

Sweet October, fare thee well ! 



D* 



MY MOTHER'S FRIEND. 

LOVINGLY INSCRIBED TO "GRANDMA FULTON. 1 

You wondered why my fingers clasped 

So lovingly that withered hand ; 
The tenderness that filled my heart 

You saw, yet could not understand. 
Yet will the mystery be explained : 

My impulse you will comprehend 
When you are told that aged one 

Was, in her youth, my mother's friend. 

Those snowy locks in other years 

Luxuriant hung, in graceful curls 
Perchance, and oft touched mother's cheek 

With soft caress, when both were girls. 
That breath commingled with her own, 

As the young head would trusting bend, 
To tell, in low, confiding tone, 

Her secrets to her early friend. 

With such a bitter, aching void 

As life must hold when mothers go, 
82 



MY MOTHER'S FRIEND. 83 

No matter when, — if full of years, 
Or in their noontide's golden glow, 

It is not strange my weary heart 

Should long to feel those arms descend 

And fold in motherly embrace 
The daughter of her early friend. 

I wonder if the mists of years 

Melt in the radiance of the skies? 
Will heaven restore our faded bloom, 

And youth return in Paradise? 
Do blighted hopes and vanished joys 

Revive, return when earth's dreams end? 
If so, what glad surprise awaits, 

Beyond the blue, my mother's friend ! 

Oh, peaceful be her closing hour, 

And soothing the familiar tone 
That bids her deathless spirit rise 

Where weight of years is all unknown ! 
May the same hand that points her way 

Clasp mine when life and care shall end, 
And bear me to the shining shore, 

To join my mother's early friend ! 



THEY SPOKE IN WHISPERS. 

They spoke in whispers ; it was not 

Because a crowd was nigh, 
For all alone they breathed each thought 

Beneath a moonlit sky. 
That stilly hour but nursed the flame 

That o'er their spirits swept; 
And Nature, hallowed by the same, 

A sacred silence kept. 

They spoke in whispers; was't because 

They feared the birds might hear ? 
Or that the light-winged breeze might pause 

And bend a listening ear? 
Or that the sweet wild-flowers, which stood 

So near, in listening crowds, 
Might snatch their secret, — that the dew 

Might tell it to the clouds ? 

Or did they fear the fair young moon 
Might ope her silver bars, 
84 



THEY SPOKE IN WHISPERS, 85 

To let the echo of each word 

Glide upward to the stars ? 
Or that the ripples of the stream 

That kissed that quiet shore 
Might catch their vows, and to the waves 

Repeat the story o'er? 

Or did they dream the heavens would speak 

Through countless starry eyes, 
Bent downward on each love-lit cheek 

In tremulous surprise ? 
I cannot tell, but only know 

That earth and air and sky 
Seemed conscious of the rapturous thrill 

That marked each fond reply. 

Soft grew their whispers ; gently moved 

Her crimson lips apart, 
As if to drink the waves of love 

That rippled from his heart. 
Then nearer stole the envious breeze, 

To share that whispered tone ; 
Too late — 'twas hushed — their souls had learned 

A language all their own. 



ONLY LENT. 

Morning's hush was all around me, 

Silence brooded everywhere, 
When the early dawning found me 

Bowed and crushed by wild despair ; 
For my eldest-born before me 

Prostrate lay with faltering breath, 
And the shudder that stole o'er me 

Seemed the icy touch of death. 
Then the solemn hush was broken, 

Tones from distant bells were blent. 
When I asked, " What means this token?" 

I was answered, " Only Lent." 

Only Lent ! To fastings holy, 

Soon to end at Easter-tide, 
They referred, while I bent lowly 

O'er the blossom at my side. 
Tender plant, whose love had lighted 

Days of toil and nights of gloom ; 
But whose buds of hope were blighted, 

Blighted in their early bloom. 
86 



ONLY LENT. 87 

Ten short years to bless and cheer me 

Had this April flower been sent ; 
Ten short springs to blossom near me, 

Then to wither. Only lent. 

Heavier seemed my cross unto me 

Than before .was ever borne, 
When she whispered that she knew me 

As I wept that sacred morn. 
I forgot Who once hung bleeding 

While this Day was wrapped in gloom ; 
For our ransom interceding, 

Bearing thus the sinner's doom ; 
And my soul cried out in sorrow 

For the deep affliction sent, 
Murmuring, " He may claim to-morrow 

Her whose life is only lent." 

But the morrow came and ended, 

And another dawned and sped ; 
Then the morn when He ascended — 

Rose in triumph from the dead, 
Crowned with resurrection glory; 

Gladly rang the matin bells, 
Pealing forth the wondrous story 

Through our t plains and woods and dells. 



SS ONL Y LENT. 

Then the sweet, pale face beside me 
Whiter grew by suffering spent; 

Joy without, but hope denied me: 
She, I knew, was only lent. 

Days since then I've sadly numbered ; 

Twelve young moons have come and gone, 
And her precious form has slumbered, — 

Cold and still has slumbered on. 
But her deathless soul ascended 

To a loving Saviour's side, 
Where, with angel voices blended, 

Hers will chant at Easter-tide. 
When I know her joyous spirit, 

Resting thus in sweet content, 
All heaven's transports may inherit, 

Should I grieve, though only lent ? 

Once again through tears I hearkened 

To the deep-toned bells that rang, 
Heralding the day that darkened 

'Neath the crucifixion pang. 
Then the angel of Bestowment, 

Pitying my lonely hours, 
Bent above my couch a moment 

With a bud from Eden bowers; 



ONL Y LENT. 

As it touched my yearning bosom, 
Life and hope and joy seemed sent 

To enfold the tender blossom, 

Given perhaps ; perhaps but lent ! 

Last year's crucifixion morning 

Held for me a heavy cross ; 
For 'twas then I heard the warning 

Of my near approaching loss ; 
Now again its dawn is over, 

Prayers and matins all are said, 
And an angel seems to hover, 

Breathing blessings on my head. 
Hark ! she whispers, "lam near thee; 

Let not life in gloom be spent, 
Let this blossom soothe and cheer thee; 

Christ himself was only lent. ' ' 



8* 



89 



ESTO PERPETUA. 

DEDICATED TO THE STUDENTS OF THE COLLEGE OF PHY- 
SICIANS AND SURGEONS, AT KEOKUK, IOWA, CLASSES OF 
1875-76. 

Students ! as again ye gather 

Where your feet have trod before, 
Ope your minds to Wisdom's teachings, 

Drink them in and thirst for more ! 
In your Alma Mater's shadow 

Sages, men of learning, wait, 
Ready, with the keys^of Science, 

To unlock her golden gate. 

Those who dwell in mountain-passes, 

Narrowed in by rock and vale, 
Strive, and serve an humble purpose, 

Make their little lives avail. 
But, with prairies circling round you, 

Stretching beyond human ken, 
And this grand old river near you, 

Need ye rank as common men? 
90 



ES TO PERPETUA. 

Why, it seems such thoughts should thrill you 

As would leap their prison-bars, 
Mounting, eagle-plumed, above you, 

Till they almost touched the stars ! 
Vastness, richness, boundless beauty 

Urge you up to loftiest height ; 
Rouse you to prolonged endeavor, — 

Nerve you for Life's coming fight. 

Be ye watchful, patient, gentle, 

Quick to soothe and strong to bear ; 
For the healing of the nation 

Is confided to your care. 
Let your tones be glad and hopeful 

If new life ye would impart ; 
Let your cheering smiles of greeting 

Fall, like sunlight, on the heart. 

Oh, be firm as rocks of granite 

When temptations bar your way ! 
Let not vice, with its allurements, 

Turn your steadfast steps astray. 
Pure should be the man who waiteth 

Where a spirit's bonds are riven, 
And the freed soul, angel-guided, 

Wings its way to home and heaven. 



9 1 



EDA. 



AGED THIRTY-THREE YEARS. 



One sweet, consoling thought comes to me as I write : 
Her deathless spirit, snowy-winged, is nearer us to-night 
Than when it dwelt below, imprisoned by the clay, 
Longing to join the yearning group that mourned its 
lengthened stay. 

For heaven is not so far that loved ones may not find 
The shadowed homes and longing hearts of those they 

left behind ; 
They rest a little while by Eden's placid streams, 
And then glide back, on noiseless wings, to soothe us in 

our dreams. 

Not vanished from our sight, — no, no, not gone to stay ! 
Her touch — her smile — her gentle tone can never pass 

away; 
The twilight brings again a wealth of sunny hair, — 
A brow of White, a hand, a voice that points and whispers, 

"There." 
92 



EDA. 



93 



We know that she will wait, nor seek the furthest skies, 
Until there is a gathering in of all earth's broken ties ; 
The eldest-born — the first to cross death's mystic tide, 
And first to greet, with welcoming clasp, upon the other 
side. 

Be our lives as pure, as free from stain or sin, 

As the white soul that heard His call and softly floated 

in; 
And if 'tis ours to choose what recompense be given 
For every pang, we only ask to share our darling's heaven. 



MAMMA'S VALENTINE. 

" Mamma !" cried a roguish elf, 
Snatching kisses for himself, 
Standing, tiptoe, by my side 
With a look of boyish pride, 
" See how tall ! If you'll be mine, 
J will be your Valentine." 

' ' Yes, my darling, so you may ; 
Whisper low what you would say ; 
Breathe it soft, in tenderest tone, 
Vow to live for me alone ; 
Learn, in time, that love in part 
Never holds a woman's heart." 

" When I grow to be a man 
Mayn't I love you all I can ? 
Is it silly, mamma, say, 
When I kiss you this-a-way? 
Ain't I yours, and ain't you mine? 
And don't that mean Valentine?" 



94 



MAMMA'S VALENTINE. 

" Yes, my sweet, — you understand, — 
Lip to lip, and hand in hand ; 
Heart that wakes an answering thrill, 
Soul to soul responsive still ; 
All thine own, as thou art mine, 
Dearest, truest, Valentine." 



95 



NELLY'S STORY. 

It was on a lovely evening 

In the merry month of June, 
That we sailed upon the waters clear, 

Beneath the rising moon. 
We had often sat together thus, 

Young Lawrence Grey and I, 
And watched the Night-Queen rolling 

Through her kingdom in the sky. 

He spoke as he was wont to speak, 

In whispers soft and low, 
Of moonlit skies and slumbering flowers, 

And wavelets' murmuring flow. 
In vain I listened for the words 

I longed to hear him say ; 
He breathed them not, — my heart was sad,- 

I loved young Lawrence Grey. 

Long had I known him ; oft had sat 
Within the leafy grove, 
96 



NELLY'S STORY. 97 

And hoped to hear him whisper low 

An earnest tale of love ; 
Or stood, expectant, by his side, 

At twilight's stilly hour, 
And felt across my senses steal 

A spell of wondrous power. 

But Hope, the siren, from my heart 

Had well-nigh ta'en her flight ; 
And dark despair sat brooding there 

Upon that summer's night. 
And when, at last, a sacred hush 

Fell upon wood and stream, 
My thoughts were busy with the past, 

While Lawrence seemed to dream. 

I touched the water with my hand, 

And tried to catch each gem 
That, with the moonbeams, formed a gay, 

A sparkling diadem. 
A sudden fancy seized my brain, — 

" Suspense is worse than death; 
'Twill test his love to run the risk, — 

I can but lose my breath." 

One parting glance was all I gave ; 
But "he beheld me not, 
9 



98 NELLY'S STORY. 

So closely were his senses bound 
By deep, unfathomed thought. 

" Forgive me, Heaven !" I softly said ; 
" Now love or death must win !" 

And, with the words, the skiff upset, 
And I — I tumbled in. 

One moment dark dismay became 

A tenant of my breast ; 
Another, every doubt gave way, — 

All fear was lulled to rest. 
A strong arm bore me to the shore, 

Upheld my sinking form, 
While tear-drops fell upon my cheeks 

All fresh and bright and warm. 

" Gone, almost gone !" he wildly said, 

And smoothed my dripping hair ; 
Then pressed his lips upon my own, 

And left love's signet there. 
A 'wildering bliss, an untold joy, 

Across my being stole ; 
And eyelids, that till then were closed, 

No longer brooked control. 

"Lawrence !" I slowly, feebly said, — 
A flush suffused his cheek ; 



NELLY'S STORY. 

Then, quick, he told me all his lips 

Had long refused to speak: 
He said he worshiped — he adored ; 

If I would be his own, 
Henceforth his aim in life should be 

My happiness alone. 

What answered I? Ask of the moon, 

That now, all radiant, shone ; 
Or of the still, pale stars beyond, 

That tremblingly looked on. 
I've tried a thousand times to think, 

But tried, alas! in vain ; 
Those words escaped from Memory's chart, 

And ne'er came back again. 

'Twas not till many years had fled 

With many joys away, 
And I had long been known to friends 

As "sober Nelly Grey," 
That I could venture to confess, 

To him who used to dream, 
That it was not an accident — 

My falling in'the stream. 

He scarce believed me when I said 
/made the skiff capsize ; 



99 



IO o NELLY'S STORY. 

Or that I heard the words he spoke 

Before I oped my eyes. 
He smiled, though, when he heard me say, 

" If I were young once more, 
And loved and doubted, I would act — 
Just as I did before. ' ' 



I'LL MEET THEE ALONE. 

When morn's rose-light lingers 

On love's hallowed bowers, 
And zephyr's light fingers 

Awaken the flowers ; 
When echo, repeating 

Each bird's gladsome tone, 
Makes joyous our hearts, love, 

I'll meet thee alone! 

When Day's course is ended, 

And, from heaven's high spars, 
By angels suspended 

And fastened by stars, 
Hangs twilight's soft curtain, 

O'er earth's bosom thrown, 
I'll hide 'neath this veil, love, 

And meet thee alone ! 

When Luna's soft glances 
Illumine the night, 



102 I'LL MEET THEE ALONE. 

When, as she advances, 
The stars steal from sight ; 

When mortals are dreaming 
Of sweet moments flown, 

I'll hasten away, love, 
And meet thee alone ! 

Then to our soul's vision, 

In rose-tinted dyes, 
Like some fair elysian, 

The future will rise. 
And — strange ears may ope, -love, 

To catch my low tone ; 
So, waiting, I'll hope, love, 

To meet thee alone ! 



LITTLE GEORGIE BALL. 

Fold the snowy cover under, 

Where his pulseless form is laid, 
Then sit down to sigh and wonder 

Why this sudden call was made. 
Lay the dimpled hands together 

Gently as you bend to weep, 
Murmuring oft, in whispers tender, 

"Little Georgie's gone to sleep." 

Why, it seems but yester-morning 

That his merry laugh rang out 
As he passed, and, backward turning, 

Answered Josey's joyous shout. 
Never once I dreamed, poor mother, 

Of the shadow dark and deep 
Soon to fold the "little brother" 

In that icy, dreamless sleep. 

Josey still keeps watching, waiting, 
Both at .morn and twilight gray, 



104 LITTLE GEORGIE BALL. 

Asking, while their sports relating, 
"Why don't Georgie come to play?" 

Then I fold my arms about him, 
Praying I may hold and keep ; 

Saying, "You must play without him, 
Little Georgie is asleep." 

Weeping mother, doting father, 

Crushed and bowed by wild despair, 
Lift your eyes above the casket, 

Naught but dust is prisoned there ! 
Know that He who took your darling 

Will his deathless spirit keep, 
Blest and happy with the angels, 

Safe till ye are called to sleep. 

Then prepare to rise and meet him 

When your summons comes to go ; 
Wheresoe'er your treasure resteth, 

There your spirit-longings flow. 
It was kind the pitying Father, 

Knowing he to wait must weep, 
Took him ere earth's sorrows found him,- 

Lulled his precious form to sleep. 



THE NEW YEAR. 

Hark ! a phantom bell is tolling, and it tolls a funeral 

chime, 
While a footfall totters slowly down the corridor of Time, 
To the music of a requiem from the ocean and the shore, 
And from dead and shrouded forests, sighing, " Never — 

nevermore !" 
Whence, oh whence this wail of sorrow, — whence this 

universal sigh, 
Paling all the stars that tremble in a cold December sky ? 
Why, with white hair wildly streaming, comes old Time 

upon the blast, 
As if marshaling his army from the ages of the Past ? 

See, he veils his furrowed features as he rends the gloom 

apart, 
And the pall of Midnight hideth the cold form upon his 

heart ; 
And he groans, until his anguish fills the air with dire 

alarms, 
As he treads upon the darkness with the dead Year in 

his arms. 
e* 105 



to6 THE NEW YEAR. 

Soft ! keep silent ! he is pausing at the grave's eternal 

brink ! 
Does the yawning gulf appall him? Does the blackness 

make him shrink? 
No ! his ghostly eyes are dimming, and he mourns the 

fallen one 
As the king of old lamented o'er his lost and erring son : 

"Thy race is run, my stricken one; thy fleeting life is 

o'er ; 
Thy Summer breeze and Autumn skies will come to us no 

more. 
The last day of thy circling round has melted into night, 
And viewless spirits wait the knell to bear thee from my 

sight. 

"What hast thou seen, my cold, dead Year, since first I 
led thee forth, 

And bade thee turn thy wondering gaze upon the slumber- 
ing earth ? 

Ah me ! that bell — that phantom knell — is tolling, tolling 
slow, 

As if to answer in thy stead, ' Far less, of joy than woe.* 

"'I've seen,' it moans, in dismal tones, 'the warring 

waves by night ; 
Have watched the gallant, wounded ship go down and 

out of sight ; 



THE NEW YEAR. 107 

Have seen the foaming billows rave and cleave the totter 

ing deck, 
While dying creatures, ghastly pale, clung wildly to the 

wreck. 

" ' I've seen the lurid lightning hurled among the frantic 

waves, 
As if a torch were flung from heaven to light the ocean 

caves, 
And, when the fury of the blast lashed his huge ribs apart, 
I've tried to count the giant throbs that wrenched old 

Ocean's heart. 

" 'I've watched the valiant soldiers fall beneath the leaden 

rain, 
When no sustaining arms were near to soothe their dying 

pain ; 
Have seen the homes made desolate by grim, insatiate 

War, 
And wondered if 'twas justified before Jehovah's bar.' 

"What hast thou heard, my stricken one, what sounds 

have met thine ear, 
Since first arose my parting wail above the buried year? 
Again that knell — that spirit bell — is tolling, tolling slow; 
It speaks for thee still mournfully, ' Far less of joy than 

woe ! ' 



108 THE NEW YEAR. 

" ' For squalid Poverty and Want have stalked throughout 

the land, 
And skeletons of Pomp and Pride skulked by on every 

hand ! 
And from the city's crowded mart, as from the barren 

moor, 
The prayer has risen, " O God of heaven, have mercy on 

the poor !" 

11 'I've heard the widow's plaintive moan, the orphan's 

cry for bread, 
The groans of helpless age, low-stretched on Misery's 

stony bed, 
Have heard from girlhood's pallid lips the wail that slow 

decay 
Wrings from the soul as, drop by drop, the life-tide ebbs 

away. ' 

"But, soft ! a fluttering of wings, a rustling through the 

sky, 
As if the starlight trembled down to breathe a fond 

<Good-by.' 
The New Year comes ! her innocence hath made stern 

purpose dumb ; 
My palsied hands refuse to lift the veil of ills to come ; 



THE NEW YEAR. 109 

For though my aged eyes have seen joy after joy depart, 
To leave me naught but Memory's draught, — the worm- 
wood of the heart, — 

"Still would I screen from her young gaze the midnight 

and the shade, — 
The grave-yards of the human heart, — where, side by side, 

are laid 
Dear hopes, fond joys, aspiring dreams, that made Life's 

morning bright, 
But, ere its sultry noon came on, withered from early 

blight. 
And now farewell ! I go to wait beyond the circling 

years, 
Where angel-harps are hung to catch the music of the 

spheres ; 
Far up those amaranthine steeps, where flowers eternal 

bloom, 
I'll watch her course and gently light her pathway to the 

tomb." 

10 



GREETING TO THE SIR KNIGHTS. 

A GRAND BANQUET AND RECEPTION WAS GIVEN BY DAMAS- 
CUS COMMANDERY AT KEOKUK, IOWA, OCT. 21, 1 875. 

Welcome, Sir Knights ! the Chapter stands 
With open arms and outstretched hands ! 
Damascus greets, with beaming eye, 
The chosen of the Mystic Tie ! 
And wreathes in green her banquet hall 
For those who heed her kindly call. 

Grand Knighthood ! though not understood 

The mystery of thy Brotherhood, 

We know each solemn rite conferred 

Is symboled in His Holy Word, 

And that an origin divine 

Is traced through every secret sign. 

The Red Cross ! not yourselves can claim 
This sign alone, — 'tis ours the same. 
To it the sinner turns to see 
The dying throes on Calvary, 
no 



GREETING TO THE SIR KNIGHTS. HI 

And learn Redemption's price was paid 
By Him on Whom our guilt was laid. 

Who dares antiquity disdain 

That reaches back to Bethlehem's plain ? 

Rolls back the ages farther still, 

To rest upon Mount Zion's hill? 

Claims the same paths the prophets trod, 

And lifts the spirit up to God ? 



I AM WAITING FOR THEE. 

A SONG FOR THE AGED. 

Beloved, dost know that, though heaven is far, 
Heart throbs unto heart as star answereth to star? 
That the dear ones below and the dear ones above 
Receive and return mystic tokens of love ? 
That the mourner, though lonely, is never alone, 
For a form keeps its shadow in one with his own ? 
Has a whisper e'er thrilled thee, a tone glad and free, 
"Be patient, my own, I am waiting for thee? 

" Lone heart, thou art weary ! As age stealeth on 
Thou longest, thou yearnest, at times, to be gone. 
I read all thy thoughts, and the bright dreams I bring, 
The answers to prayers 'neath my sheltering wing, 
I pour on thy heart in the hush of the night, 
And, hovering o'er thee, catch words of delight. 
Oh, wait ! and be patient till Death sets thee free, 
For, darling, be sure I am waiting for thee. 

112 



/ AM WAITING FOR THEE. II3 

"Yes, waiting for thee, and while thou must remain, 
The summit of glory I may not attain ; 
Thy love is the magnet that holdeth me near 
When my spirit would soar to a loftier sphere. 
Oh, not e'en for heaven would I widen the space 
That holds me, at times, from the light of thy face. 
I will stand at the gate, and at last thou wilt see, 
When He calls thee to come, I've been waiting for thee." 



IO* 



WOMAN'S VOICE. 

When sin came among us, and Eden was lone, 

The pitying Father was kind ; 
For He robbed not the woman of one melting tone, 

Nor bade her leave beauty behind. 
So, with all her sweet charms and her exquisite grace, 

Young Eve left that love-hallowed bower, 
Retaining for Adam her beautiful face, 

And a voice full of pathos and power. 

And he, although banished, though exiled for aye, 

From shades so enticing to roam, 
Was not without hope, for her love was his stay, 

And her soft, witching voice was his home. 
To soothe him at even with melody sweet 

Till the desert around him grew bright, 
At morn his awaking with anthems to greet, 

Was her mission, her joy and delight. 

Thus Woman and Melody gently combined 
To banish each lingering regret ; 
114 



WOMAN'S VOICE. 



"5 



Though she lured him to err and leave Eden behind, 

Resistless, he clings to her yet. 
Her voice, full of sweetness, persuasive in love, 

Entrancing in cadence or swell, 
Still sways him, as when, in that lost Eden grove, 

He listened and tasted and fell. 



THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 

All pale, yet beautiful in grief, she laid her down to 

rest, 
And her head was softly pillowed on a loving sister's 

breast ; 
A flower, exhaling to the skies, yet scarce of earth a part, 
She was fading, drooping, dying, — dying of a broken 

heart. 
" Tell me, sister," thus she murmured, and her whispered 

words scarce heard 
Fell like strains from distant harp-strings by soft breezes 

lightly stirred, — 
" Tell me, when my sands are wasted, when the silken 

cord is riven, 
Will this memory cling about me ? can I bear it up to 

heaven ? 

" Oh, answer yes, my sister, — it were cruel to say No ; 
He was false, but do not blame him, for I loved — I loved 
him so ! 
116 



• THE BROKEN-HEARTED. n 7 

I have suffered keenly, deeply, but the strife is almost o'er, 
And my latest thoughts now wander to the sunny days of 

yore. 
Do not tell him, should he seek you, how my heart by 

grief was wrung ; 
Only say, I died with blessings and his name upon my 

tongue. 
Tell him how I clasped his image fondly, wildly, to my 

breast, — 
How I prayed that he would join me in the mansions of 

the blest ; 
How the dearest hope I cherished was, that when my soul 

was free, 
Its deep love might still be changeless through a long 

eternity. 
Ask him if he has forgotten the quiet, mossy dell 
Where we used to sit together when the twilight shadows 

fell; 
Where he gently smoothed my tresses, drew me closer to 

his side, 
Breathing low, in tenderest accents, ' Golden-haired and 

sunny-eyed.' 
Where my forehead with the baptism of his lips was often 

wet; 
Ah, those moments, gone forever, how I love, how prize 

them yet ! 



n8 THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 

Their remembrance lingers o'er me, the dear star-light of 

my heart, 
And, though all grow dim around me, this can nevermore 

depart. 

"Ask him more, — if he remembers one lovely eve in June, 
How we wandered to the brook-side to watch the rising 

moon ; 
How, in playfulness, his fingers traced my name upon the 

sand ; 
How his own was writ beneath it in a trembling, fluttering 

hand. 
Oh, he does not dream how sacredly those golden grains 

I've kept, 
Or how, that moonlit evening, while others sweetly 

slept, 
I glided o'er the dewy lawn, soft oped the garden-gate, 
And, reaching thus the trysting-spot, — now lone and 

desolate, — 
I gathered up each tiny grain, and, with a miser's care, 
Concealed them with my treasured gifts, — the tress of 

auburn hair, 
The picture, and the withered bud, now hidden on my 

breast, — 
There, sister, let them slumber when you lay me down to 

rest. 



THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 



119 



"Softly, softly! Oh, my sister, has the daylight faded 

quite? 
Or does memory now bathe me in a flood of starry light? 
I can see him, — he is coming, — now his arms are open 

wide; 
Lay me, sister, on his bosom \ What is all the world 

beside ? 
Oh, I knew he would be constant ! I was sure that he 

would come ; 
Nearer, nearer, sister — tell him — tell him — I — am — going 

— home. 
You will never call him faithless — never censure, blame 

him — No ! 
Only tell him, sister dearest, that I loved — I loved him 

so!" 

Her voice was hushed ; twas over ; no murmur — scarce a 

sigh ; 
The silence was unbroken, save by seraphs floating by. 
The watcher shed no tear-drop as she closed those rayless 

eyes, 
For she knew she would awaken to the joys of Paradise. 
The hectic flush had faded from those snowy cheeks of 

clay, 
But she thought of bloom perennial in the climes of 

endless day. 



120 THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 

The pallid lips seemed quivering with a soft angelic smile, 
As though the soul, at parting, had lingered there awhile 
To breathe its benediction o'er that form of matchless 

mold, 
So calm, so pure, so beautiful, so young, yet, oh ! so 

cold. 
And when they robed her for the tomb, they found a 

shining band 
Of auburn hair, — a withered bud, — his pictured face, — 

and sand ! 
These, and that face so sadly sweet, a tale of suffering 

spoke ; 
They told how much that gentle heart was tortured ere it 

broke. 



A VALENTINE. 

TO MY ABSENT DAUGHTER, ELLA. 

Think of me, darling ! My poor heart seems breaking, 

Saddened and crushed, by thy constant forsaking. 

Never an hour but thy face is before me, 

Never a day but I bend fondly o'er thee, 

Never a night but my arms steal about thee, 

While my heart cries, "Must I still live without thee?" 

Nothing I listen to, nothing I see, 

Stills, for one moment, my longings for thee. 

Think of me, pet, and if thou, too, dost miss me, 
Hold up thy lips, as if waiting to kiss me. 
Let the good angels above us discover, 
Mamma, though distant, has some one to love her. 
Bid them to waft me thy kiss as a token 
That the tie binding us ne'er can be broken ; 
E'en as the oak wooes the upreaching vine, 
Yearneth my heart Jto be circled by thine. 

F II 121 



122 A VALENTINE. 

Think of me, sweet ! When the sun's golden quiver 
Loosens the bands of our beautiful river, 
Bend thy red lips where its wavelets are kneeling, — 
Freight them with whispers of tenderest feeling, — 
Let the clear waters, as thou leanest over, 
Clasp thy dear image and bear me, thy lover, 
Something to cheer me, — a shadow or sign, — 
Something to prove thee my own Valentine. 



A WELCOME TO MRS. FRANCES D. 
GAGE. 

I wait thy coming, honored friend, 

With tenderness and tears, 
For memory's tapers brighter burn 
As age steals on, until I yearn 
With confidence and trust to turn 

To friends of other years. 

I've had my share of golden dreams, 

Of hopes and haunting fears ; 
Of days whose suns in darkness set, 
Of ecstasies that thrill me yet 
And make my weary heart forget 

The weight of twenty years. 

The silvery threads are whiter now 

That on thy brow appear ; 
Age, suffering, and, it may be, care 
Have left their spotless symbol there, 
As pure as the fresh snow-flakes are 

That deck the dying year. 

123 



124 A - WELCOME TO MRS. FRANCES D. GAGE. 

The shock full ripe, the golden grain 

Awaits the Reaper's hand ; 
Awaits the Boatman's silent oar — 
The signal from a distant shore — 
For tones of loved ones gone before, 

Guides to the spirit-land. 

The bravest heroes are not they 

Who foremost rush to fight ; 
But they who aid each glorious plan 
That elevates their fellow-man ; 
Who help to kindle, feed, and fan 

The smouldering flames of Right. 

More beautiful are withered hands 

Than fingers girt with gold, 
If they have scattered here and there, 
With blessings oft, sometimes with prayer, 
The seeds of good, henceforth to bear 

Perchance an hundred -fold. 



The tenderest and the truest hearts, 

Strong in their purity, 
Are such as crucify desire, 
Forgetting self in purpose higher, 



A WELCOME TO MRS. FRANCES D. GAGE. 

To raise humanity still nigher 
To Him who made us free. 

That voice can never lose its thrill, 

Its pathos and its power, 
That swells responsive to a call ; 
Whose earnest tones will rise and fall 
In pleadings for the good of all 

Until the closing hour. 



■j 



OH, WHY WAS HE TAKEN? 

DEDICATED TO MRS. H. SCOTT HOWELL, OF KEOKUK, IOWA. 

Oh, why was he taken in Life's early morning, 

Your only — your darling — your beautiful boy ? 
Why torn from your arms without whisper or warning, 

The babe that you counted a " well-spring of joy"? 
Did you love him too much? Had the future been gilded 

With pictures too golden — with dreams all too bright ? 
And was it for this all the hopes you had builded 

Were shattered and crushed by Death's withering 
blight? 

What is home to you now, since your hearthstone may 
never 

Be gladdened again by that innocent face, — 
Since the light of his presence has vanished forever, 

And no sign of the soft, dimpled hands you may trace? 
As you sit by his crib, with his playthings beside you, 

His rattle and ring and each worn, broken toy, 
Your empty hearts reach for the treasure denied you, 

And your lips wait in vain for the kiss of your boy. 
126 



OH, WHY WAS HE TAKEN? 127 

And you wonder, so often, if this folded blossom 

In Eden's own light will unopened remain ; 
When your bud is reclaimed, will you clasp to your 
bosom 

Your baby — the dear, angel-baby — again? 
Will it rest on His breast, "as a child," till your coming, 

In His sheltering arms Who bade children to come ? 
"Oh, yes !" Faith replies, as you look through the gloam- 
ing: 

"Not lost — only waiting with Jesus — at Home." 



MY MOTHER'S GLASSES. 

I opened a worn trunk yesterday, 

Sitting alone in my quiet room, 
And sighed as I saw them folded away, — 
The garments there, — for the form that lay 

Clad in white robes in the silent tomb. 

I lifted each with the tenderest care, 

And laid them out in the morning breeze ; 
The caps and 'kerchiefs she used to wear, 
With keepsakes, letters, and locks of hair ; 
And paused to muse when I came to these, 

The glasses that aided her aged eyes, 

Grown dim from sorrows and length of years; 
She slept, at last, and earth's mists and tears 

Were changed for the brightness of Paradise. 

Does she watch, I wonder, with yearning gaze, 

For one she longeth to welcome there ? 
When, loosed from the fetters of earth and sin, 
128 



MY MOTHER'S GLASSES. 



129 



The white-robed angels glide softly in, 

Does she mark the features the ransomed wear ? 

If so, how long must the watcher wait 

Till she clasps the pilgrim she longs to greet ? 
Must my eyes grow dim, must I tarry late 
Ere I catch the gleam, near the golden gate, 
Of glances with mother-love replete ? 

How long till my glasses are laid aside 
To gather dust in the years to come ? 

To be found, perchance, at some distant day, 

By those I love, who will softly say, 

"No tear-dimmed eyes in her radiant Home." 



F* 



THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER. 

There is not in the wide world a river as grand 

As the one whose bright waves lave my own native land ; 

From the dear mother-lake which it leaves with a sigh, 

And murmurs, at parting, a tender good-by, 

On down to the Gulf, that, with arms open wide, 

Receives to her bosom the on-rushing tide, 

Repeating the vow by her lover begun, 

That henceforth, forever, their lives shall be one, 

There are beauty and freshness and splendor untold 

On its shores, on its isles, in its ripples of gold. 

Past meadow and moorland, past forest and glade, 
How grandly it courses in sunlight and shade ! 
Reflecting the blushes of morn's rosy light, 
Or set with tiaras of star-gems at night ; 
So mirroring heaven that if loved ones might stray 
Through portals of light in the regions of day, 
Or mount its bright ramparts and fondly look down, 
We might catch, in these waters, the gleam of a crown, 
A glad smile of joy on a glorified face, 
And white arms upheld for a tender embrace. 
130 



THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER. 



13 



Say, River of rivers, what is't they implore 

As thy ripples press forward to kneel on thy shore ? 

I see them, at morn, lowly bending in prayer, — 

At even their pleadings float soft on the air. 

While up through the starlight comes, tender and low, 

The trembling refrain of their murmuring flow. 

What yearnings can move thee, what longings can start, 

With heaven's own image clasped close to thy heart? 

I think, when thy islands of verdure are seen, 

Of Eden's still waters and pastures of green, 

And feel, when my feet touch thy shore's dewy sod, 

A sense of His presence, a nearness to God. 

A picture floats up from thy blue waves to me 

Of Him who sat down by Gennesareth's sea; 

And e'en when thy storm-maddened billows mount high, 

They waft me the whisper, — "Fear not, it is I." 



MOUNT VERNON. 

A call — and to Woman ! 

A voice from the sod 
Where Washington's spirit 

Ascended to God ! 
A wail from the billows 

That chant round the brave, 
A sigh from the willows 

That bend o'er his grave ; 
A moan from the pathway 

Long worn by the tread 
Of worshiping pilgrims, 

Who kneel by his bed ; 
A cry from the Nation, 

That Woman may come 
And rescue from ruin 

Our Washington's Tomb. 

A glorious purpose — 

A mission divine, 
To wrest from the spoiler 

A world-worshiped shrine ; 



132 



MOUNT VERNON. 133 

A call that should thrill us 

With eager desire 
To claim for his children 

The dust of their sire. 
Not oft has such measure 

Of glory been ours, — 
Our memories to garland 

With fame's deathless flowers ; 
To stamp on the tablets 

Of ages to come, 
Our names as the guardians 

Of Washington's Home. 

Float gently, proud banner, 

Where greatness is laid ; 
Steal soft, bugle chorus, 

Through Vernon's still shade ; 
Go, silence the cannon 

And muffle the drum, 
For, lo ! to her Mecca 

Fond Woman has come. 
No army defends her, 

No weapons she bears, 
For Love is her watchword, 

Embalmed with her prayers. 



I 3 4 MOUNT VERNON. 

She kneels where the laurel 
And wild myrtle bloom, 

And claims as a ransom 
Her Washington's Tomb. 

No thunder-voiced ramparts 

She rears o'er his clay, 
No emblems to warn us 

Of Tyranny's sway ; 
No fortress, defended 

By armor or gun, 
To frown o'er the ashes 

Of God's chosen one; 
But the wall that encircles 

Our hero's loved grave 
Shall be heart to heart banded, 

The gentle and brave. 
While the pride of the Nation 

Forever shall be 
The strong love of Woman, — 

The shield of the free. 



ONE YEAR OLD. 

Sitting with my babes around me, 

And the youngest on my knee, 
Gazing" through the open lattice 

At the sunlight warm and free ; 
Thinking how my spirit doteth 

On this blessed Autumn-time, 
How she loves its low-voiced whispers 

Better than the Christmas chime, 
Or the babbling of the brooklet 

When it bursts its icy band, 
Winter's close and Spring's returning 

Loud proclaiming through the land, — 
Musing thus, my eye unconscious 

Seeks the lambkin of our fold, 
And Remembrance softly murmurs, 

" She is just a twelvemonth old !" 

Little hands ! 'neath their light pressure 
Naught but dimples now I trace ; 

Trusting eyes, turned fondly upward, 
Mutely woo a warm embrace. 

i35 



136 ONE YEAR OLD. 

Timid lips, that ne'er have ventured 

On the first sweet, trembling word, 
Fluttering voice, that utters only 

Cooings like some nestling bird, 
Save when raised in mocking laughter 

As she joins the children's play, 
Listening to their gleeful chorus : 

" Addie's one year old to-day !" 

Tottering feet, that claim the guidance 

Of a mother's guarding hand ; 
Tiny form, that bends and trembles 

In its weak attempts to stand ; 
Will that hand be spared to guide thee 

Onward through the coming years ? 
Will her voice be near to banish 

All thy childish doubts and fears? 
Precious one ! when slumber binds thee 

Thoughts like these so often start, 
For there's many a secret longing 

Prisoned in a mother's heart. 

Should this be, O Father ! aid me 
In the truths I would impress ; 

When I crave Divine Assistance, 
Deign to hearken and to bless. 



ONE YEAR OLD. 

Sooner than these feet should wander 

Wayward, erring, from the Right, 
Or these hands in acts of kindness 

Never learn to take delight ; 
Sooner than these lips should utter 

Slander base or black untruth, 
And this spotless soul be sullied 

In the golden hour of youth ; 
Sooner, though the pang it cost me 

Might be more than I could bear, 
Would I see the death-dew gather 

Now upon her forehead fair ; 
Sooner, when the spring-time cometh, 

Part the grass above the mold, 
Reading on the tablet o'er her: 

"Little Addie, one year old." 



12* 



137 



OH, WHAT SHALL BE MY SONG 
TO-NIGHT? 

Oh, what shall be my song to-night ? 

The earth, the sea, or sky, 
The star-gems, with their trembling light, 

Or night-bird's plaintive cry? 
Not such can fill the lonely heart 

With thoughts of bliss divine ; 
Not such a holy thrill impart 

To spirit warm as thine. 

The dawning of a lovely form 

Upon the raptured eye ; 
The hand's soft touch, so true and warm, 

The red lip's answering sigh ; 
The gentle voice for which we yearn 

In crowds or lonely dell, 
The beaming eye to which we turn 

Enthralled by beauty's spell, — 

These be the burden of my song, 
While dreams of heaven are thine, 
138 



OH, WHAT SHALL BE MY SONG TO-NIGHT? 139 

Made glorious by the angel throng 

Bowed at an earthly shrine. 
Then turn thee once from them to-night 

To one who wanders free, 
To sing how all things pure and bright 

Have found a home in thee. 



LINES 

ACCOMPANYING A CROSS PRESENTED TO FATHER MALONE 
BY HIS PARISHIONERS. 

When the dwelling is completed 

That we haste to rear for thee, 
Reverend Father, place this symbol 

Where, at morn, thou bend'st the knee ; 
When at eve thy low petitions 

For thy people softly rise, 
Let them touch this blessed emblem 

As they journey to the skies. 

May thy life be pure and holy ! 

May thy faith be firm when tried ! 
May' st thou take for thy example 

Him they scourged and crucified ! 
May' st thou learn, in every trial, 

Be it danger, pain, or loss, 

While the billows surge around thee, 

To cling only to His cross ! 
140 



VOICELESS PRAYER. 

All their childish sports were over, 

All their mimic work was done, 
And they came and knelt beside me, 

Hushed and solemn, one by one. 
Meekly were their soft hands folded, 

And, with young heads lowly bowed, 
Softly fell their " Our Father," 

As a star-beam through a cloud. 

When the solemn prayer was ended, 

And the last " Good-night" was told, 
From my lap the baby clambered, 

Tiny waif, a twelvemonth old. 
Dimpled hands were clasped together, 

Blue eyes raised with reverent grace, 
While a look of sweet devotion 

Gathered on his cherub face. 

Wherefore came that mute appealing? 
Wherefore, was his white soul stirred, 

141 



142 VOICELESS PRAYER. 

Ere his crimson lips had parted 

With the first low, trembling word? 

Could an earnest wish be prisoned 
In the Eden of his heart ? 

Did a prayer for heavenly guidance 
From that stainless spirit start? 

"Uttered not, yet comprehended, 

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer," 
To my ear the whisper floated 

As I watched him kneeling there ; 
Gazed and murmured, "Meet for heaven 

Are the prayers of such as he ; 
Innocence, in silent pleading, 

At the throne of Purity." 

Then I thought of all the lessons 

Taught by Him, the Undefiled ; 
Most I loved His simple sermon 

With this text, "A little child." 
And these sacred words seemed uttered : 

" Humble, trusting, free from sin, 
As the babe who kneels beside thee, 

Must thou be to enter in." 



GONE TO SLEEP. 

LITTLE GEORGIE HUSSY, OF DES MOINES, IOWA, WHO DIED 
DURING HIS MOTHER'S ABSENCE FROM HOME. 

Drop the curtain gently, softly ! 

Shut the golden sunlight out ; 
Bid the merry children, passing, 

Hush their laugh and joyous shout. 
Lay aside the snowy cover 

Over which light shadows creep, 
Then draw near and murmur over, 

" Little Georgie is asleep !" 

Oh ! 'tis hard for thee, poor mother, 

Bending o'er thy darling now; 
Covering with earnest kisses 

Icy lips and marble brow, — 
Hard to come and find the treasure 

Thou hadst hoped to hold and keep, 
Cold and quiet in his casket, 

Bright eyes hidden — fast asleep ! 

H3 



i 4 4 GONE TO SLEEP. 

Yet remember, when thou bendest' 

O'er his erib and empty chair, 
When the yearning love within thee 

Cries from anguish and despair, 
That the One who called him upward 

Will thy precious lambkin keep ; 
Only to earth's cares and sorrows 

Has thy darling gone to sleep ! 



GRANDMOTHER DICKEY. 

It was years ago one October day 

When a shadow fell on my Life's bright way; 

And, with fond hopes blighted and glad dreams fled, 

I turned with a weary, desolate tread 

To the home I had left with light step and free, 

Where my mother waited and prayed for me. 

Ah ! though crushed by woe, not of all bereft 

Can we ever feel while this friend is left. 

The love of a mother is strong and true, — 

Unchanged, undiminished, our whole life through : 

And her circling arms are our truest stay 

When hopes we have cherished have passed away. 

" Grandmother Dickey," an aged dame, 
Walked over to see me the day I came: 
It was life's October with grandmother then, 
While mother had passed her threescore and ten. 
And they both would fain have soothed me there, 
As I sat beside them jn mute despair. 

G 13- 145 



146 GRANDMOTHER DICKEY. 

"Grandmother" said it would not be long 

Till my call would come from the ransomed throng ; 

Life was only a span, and 'twould be so sweet 

For friends, long parted, again to meet. 

And she told me my duty was plain and clear 

To comfort the dear ones left me here. 

Then we all knelt down, the pilgrims twain, 
With me between them ; and not in vain 
Were the fervent prayers, as on bended knee 
They asked the Father to comfort me. 
For, like perfume wafted from fields of balm, 
There came o'er my spirit a wondrous calm. 

This was years ago, and a long, long while 

It seemed as I passed o'er the grave-yard stile, 

And on through the leaves of brown, crimson, and gold 

That covered the graves from the Winter's cold ; 

Then sat me down where the maples wave 

Their shadowy boughs o'er my mother's grave. 

And my thoughts went back, as I bowed me there, 
To an aged form, bent in earnest prayer ; 
And I said, She is old now as mother was then, — 
If she lives, she has counted threescore and ten. 



GRANDMOTHER DICKEY. 147 

And musing thus, with my lifted eyes 

Fixed on the dreary October skies, 

I stood, while the branches above poured down 

Their wealth of crimson and gold and brown ; 

Then turned to follow the sound they gave, 

And to watch them fall on a new-made grave. 

A rustling of feet 'mid the leaflets sere 

Made me turn to look, — 'twas a child drew near. 

" Come hither, my lad ! Whose grave? Pray tell !" 

" Why, Grandmother Dickey's : you knew her well. 

She was old and feeble and wanted to go, 

For so many were dead that she used to know." 

I measured the space. I was just between 
The pilgrims' graves, as that day I had been 
Between the twain when her voice arose 
To the pitying Father to soothe my woes. 
But the lips were silent that prayed for me 
Whom Faith had forsaken on Life's rough sea. 

And my heart wailed out a despairing moan, — 

A cry for the earth-love forever flown ; 

Until mother's voice through the silence came, 

" Waiting and praying, love, all the same." 

And then "Grandmother's" words, "It will be so sweet 

When friends, long parted, again shall meet ! ' ' 



"THE EASTERN STAR." 

READ BEFORE THE MEMBERS OF THIS DEGREE AT HAMIL- 
TON, ILLINOIS, ON ST. JOHN'S DAY, JUNE 24, 1 875. 

Most worthy Patron, Matron, friends, 
The blue sky fondly o'er us bends; 
This grand old river at our feet 
Listens, as if 'twould fain repeat 
To distant shore or passing breeze 
A murmur of our melodies. 

Oh, wisely chosen, the gentle Five, 
Whose spotless virtues we should strive 
To imitate, that we may be 
Worthy adoptive Masonry ; 
Worthy to learn their sacred rite 
When heavenly Orders greet our sight ; 
Worthy to catch the mystic sign 
When Eastern stars below us shine ; 
Worthy to learn the pass-word given 
By the sweet Sisterhood of heaven, 
148 



THE EASTERN STAR. 149 

When golden gates are open wide, 
By loved ones on the other side. 

Mizpah 1* the very name is fraught 
With sweet significance ; for thought 
Carries the heart to other years ; 
The circlet on the hand appears 
As first it glowed when, "Only thine," 
Responded to the mystic sign. 

On Gi lead's mount the maiden stood, 
Not dreaming of the vow of blood 
That bound her, in her budding bloom, 
To meet a dread, unaltered doom. 
The father came, exultant, back, 
Hoping a pet -lamb on the track 
Would, bounding, welcome his return ; 
But, ah ! sad fate the truth to learn ! 
His lovely child, with flying feet, 
Hastened, her honored sire to meet. 

Then Jephthah told his vow, and said, 

" Would that my life might serve instead !" 

* " Mizpah'' is often engraved in engagement-rings ; for meaning, see 
Gen. xxxi. 49. t 

13* 



150 THE EASTERN STAR. 

But the proud daughter answered, " No ! 
'Twas to the Lord, — it must be so." 

That answer stands, a first Degree, 
In our adoptive Masonry. 

O Constancy ! bright badge of love, 
Ruth did thy mighty fullness prove. 
" Where'er thou goest I will go; 
Thy resting-place I, too, must know ; 
Thy fate, thy country, I will try, 
And where thou diest I will die." 
Forsaking Moab's dewy sod, 
Her kindred and her people's God, 
Of faithful Mahlon's love bereft, 
Her fond heart had Naomi left. 

" Esther, my queen ! what wilt thou, say? 

If half my kingdom, I obey !" 

The golden sceptre near her bent, 

Admiring numbers gazed intent ; 

She, kneeling, touched the shining thing, 

And cried, " My people ! O my king !" 

Fidelity to kindred shone 

In every feature, and her tone, 

Though tremulous, was firm and brave 

As the fond look of love she gave. 



THE EASTERN STAR. 151 

The Crown and Sceptre thus find place 
Whene'er our third Degree we trace. 

" Hadst Thou been here, he had not died !" 

Weeping, the trusting Martha cried ; 

"Yet, even now, O blessed Lord, 

My soul hangs trembling on Thy word !" 

Oh, love sublime ! Oh, wondrous power, 

To stay her in affliction's hour ! 

Her white arms, raised in mute appeal, 

Her spirit's eager hope reveal. 

She sees, — she feels her Saviour nigh, 

And Faith repeats its yearning cry : 

"I know that he will rise again, 

Yet even now" — and not in vain 

The sweet voice plead, — she led the way 

To where the lifeless Lazarus lay ; 

And then across His brow there swept 

A mortal sorrow, — -Jesus wept. 

Then His diviner nature spoke : 

" Lazarus, come forth !" The dead awoke 

To learn a woman's faith could prove 

The largeness of a Saviour's love, 

To learn His pitying heart could melt 

When those He Joved in anguish knelt. 



152 THE EASTERN STAR. 

Our broken Column, — fourth Degree, 
Is type of Death in Masonry ; 
The Evergreen, its shaft beside, 
Emblem of fields beyond the tide, 
Where, in Fidelity complete, 
Sits Martha at her Saviour's feet. 

" Forgive them, Father ! they are blind !" 

Thus prayed Electa, ever kind ; 

Her husband, children, home were gone, 

Yet, brave and true, she stood alone. 

The tender hands that gently led 

The needy in, the hungry fed, 

That prisoned in their fervent hold 

The wretched wanderer, pinched and cold, 

That held her hospitable Cup 

To famished lips so bravely up, 

Those hands condemned (so soft and fair) 

The Crucifixion pang to bear ! 

Her perfect confidence in God, 
Her sweet submission 'neath the rod, 
Form, of her attributes, the key 
To ope our sacred fifth Degree. 

Lo ! in the East the Magi saw 

The star, and, filled with holy awe, 



THE EASTERN STAR. 

They followed, in their winding way, 
To where the Babe of Bethlehem lay. 
A woman's hand its brow caressed, — 
'Twas pillowed on a woman's breast ; 
While its first look of pleased surprise 
Found answer in a woman's eyes. 

Then, may not Woman bear a part 

In Masonry's exalted art? 

And what bright emblem, near or far, 

Significant as Eastern Star? 

Our Worthy Matron long has stood 

Crowned with her badge of Motherhood, 

And knows full well the rapturous bliss 

That woke with Mary's welcoming kiss. 

Our Worthy Patron guardian stands, 
Ready to guide with willing hands ; 
Explaining Emblem, Signet, Hue, 
Exhorting us to honor true, 
Telling how widowed Ruth "could glean 
Humbly the golden sheaves between ; 
Extolling Martha's changeless trust, 
When life had sought its kindred dust ; 
Recalling Esther's pleading tone, 
That moved* Assyria's mighty throne; 



*53 



G* 



154 THE EASTERN STAR. 

And holding, like a crystal cup, 
Electa's pure devotion up. 

Be ye, my sisters, tender, true, 
As our sweet type, the Violet blue ; 
Steadfast as flower that ne'er will shun 
The rising nor the setting sun. 
Pure as the spotless Lily shine ; 
Changeless and bright as leaves of Pine; 
Fervent of soul as Life can be 
When warmed by glowing Charity. 

Friends, brothers of the mystic tie, 
Can we, unnoticed, pass you by ? 
You, who have dried the widow's tears 
And hushed the trembling orphan's fears? 
Who, linked as in a golden band, 
With widening circles fill our land? 
Can aged eyes, though dimmed by tears, 
Shut out the home that still appears 
Changeless and bright to memory's view 
As when both life and hope were new? 
Can the fair bride forget the tone 
That answers fondly to her own? 
Or sister from remembrance tear 
An elder brother's constant care ? 



THE EASTERN STAR. 

Till this can be will we disclaim 
That Masonry is but a name ; 
Till this can be we'll chant afar 
The praises of the Eastern Star, 
That led the wandering shepherds on 
Until, at the awakening dawn, 
It rested, like a royal gem, 
Upon the brow of Bethlehem. 



155 



TWENTY-ONE. 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO MY NEPHEW, S. A. 

Here is my hand, young kinsman, 
Proffered with right good will ; 

And this my wish, — that coming years 
Fall round thee cloudless, still. 

'Tis something to enroll the Past, 

On Memory's golden chart, 
In characters whose hallowed light 

Will cheer the aged heart. 

'Tis this ennobles Manhood, — 

To give the moments back 
As bright and fair as when they dawn 

On Youth's bewildering track; 

To let each passing record show 

A purpose strong and true, 
A soul above temptation's snares, 

A tender heart and true. 
156 



TWENTY-ONE. 

I may not read thy future : 

And yet the siren Hope 
Spreads out before my longing gaze 

A pleasing horoscope. 

No shadow falls across thy path, 
E'en to life's setting sun, 

But every promise seems fulfilled 
Thou gav'st at twenty-one. 



157 



OLD SETTLER'S SONG. 

TUNE, "WAY DOWN UPON THE SWANEE RIVER." 

Right here, where Indian fires were lighted, 

Long, long ago ; 
Where dusky forms, by rum incited, 

Danced wildly to and fro; 
We, Old Settlers, come to greet you, 

Proffer heart and hand ; 
Breathe, too, a fervent prayer to meet you 

Yonder, in the spirit-land. 

Gone tawny chief, whose war-cry sounded — 

All but his name, 
That far and near has been resounded, 

Linked with our rising fame. 
Keokuk ! with pride we gather 

On thy golden strand ; 

While from the skies a loving Father 

Blesses our sunset land. 
158 



OLD SETTLER'S SONG. 159 

O brothers ! there are dear old faces 

Hid 'neath the mold; 
Forms missing from their wonted places, 

Hands we have clasped, still and cold. 
While the scores of years behind us 

Tell we're hastening on, 
And that, when friends return to find us, 

Softly may fall, "They are gone." 

Here, brothers, where our noble river 

Chants through its waves, 
May we remain till called to sever, — 

Make here and guard our graves. 
And with welcoming shouts we'll greet you 

When you reach heaven's strand ; 
Fling wide the golden gates and meet you, 

Brothers in the Eden-land. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF PITTSBURG. 

Arouse thee, my muse ! 

From thy lethargy start, 
And weave into words 

What thou' It find in my heart.. 
Let thy harp be new-strung, 

And obey my command, 
To sing me a song 

Of my own native land, — 
Of the clime where I roamed, 

With a heart light and free 
As the ripples that dance 

On the breast of the sea ; 
Where I flitted along 

With my innocent dreams, 
As free as the breezes 

That dimpled our streams. 

Where, stretched on the greensward, 
Grown weary of play, 
1 60 



RECOLLECTIONS OF PITTSBURG. 161 

I slept through the noon 

Of the long summer's day. 
Where winter brought sledges 

And mountains of snow ; 
And bridged all the streams 

In the valley below. 
Where I wished some good fairy 

Would give me the power 
To turn to a zephyr, 

A bird, or a flower ; 
A sunbeam — a dewdrop, 

A sprite free and wild ; 
It mattered not what 

So I was not a child. 

How well I remember 

How urchins, in crowds, 
Would scale some tall spire 

That seemed reaching the clouds, 
To prove to the timorous, 

Waiting below, 
To what wonderful heights 

Silken bubbles could go ! 
What shouts rent the air 

When each miniature thing 
14* 



162 RECOLLECTIONS OF PITTSBURG. 

Rode off on the wind, 
With the pride of a king ! 

What wondrous surmises 
By all were begun, 

As to where it would stop, — 
At the moon, stars, or sun ! 

Then the hill that surrounded 

The " City of Smoke ;" 
What scenes of enchantment 

Its vistas awoke ! 
The meeting of waters, — ■ 

The trio in view ; ' 
Their jeweled hands clasping, — 

How steadfast, how true, 
The union of hearts, 

Whose High-Priest was the sun ! 
Whose vows were, " Henceforward, 

Name, purposes, one/" 
What wonder that picture 

In memory is laid, 
Too faithful to perish, 

Too constant to fade. 

I've a brother (God bless him !) 
» Whose joy used to be 



RECOLLECTIONS OF PITTSBURG. 163 

To sit in the twilight 

With " Sis" on his knee, 
And tell her in whispers 

Of angels of light 
Floating down through earth-shadows 

To watch her by night ; 
That no good little girl 

Need be ever afraid, 
For His arms were about her 

In sunlight and shade ; 
That even the babe 

On a fond mother's breast 
Nor shudders, nor shrinks, 

When He calls it to Rest. 

Years have fled, and now " Sis" 

Has to matronhood grown ; 
While the "brother" calls sons 

In ripe manhood his own. 
But those lessons of Faith, 

His sweet pictures of Trust, 
Will live when the lips 

That portrayed them are dust. 
With the wealth of the Indies 
. Can never be bought 
The rapturous bliss 

Of each*beautiful thought, 



1 64 RECOLLECTIONS OF PITTSBURG. 

That has sprung from the seed 
That were sown in Life's spring, 

When no grief bowed my spirit 
Nor trammeled its wing. 

'Tis a chilling remembrance, 

(It frightens me yet,) 
The day I trudged homeward 

Distressingly wet; 
Had played truant from school, 

And, most shocking of all, 
Had taken a bath 

In our famous canal. 
" How father will threaten ! 

How mother will scold !" 
I whispered, while trembling 

From terror and cold. 
And when sister came in 

And wet garments descried, 
" Oh, my I" I returned to her 

"Sis, you must hide." 

How gently and softly 

In bed was I laid, 
And never was told 

The excuse she had made ! 



RECOLLECTIONS OF PITTSBURG. 

Yet that night, when our household 

All quietly slept, 
I knew that my mother 

Bent o'er me and wept. 
One tender hand lifted 

My pillow of down, 
The other moved soft 

O'er my tresses of brown, 
While lips that might banish 

My dream, did they speak, 
Left the seal of their pardon 

And love on my cheek. 

I am changed from the truant 

Of life's early spring ; 
Am no longer a dreamer, 

A light-hearted thing. 
Yet, could Fancy transport me 

To where I command, 
I'd be off in a trice 

To my own native land. 
Would fly to the common, 

And search for the swing ; 
Would clamber the hill-side, 

And drink at the spring ; 
On the meeting of waters 

Would gaze with delight, 



165 



1 66 RECOLLECTIONS OF PITTSBURG. 

And watch the balloons 
As they hurry from sight ; 

Would haste to the homestead, — 

The homestead — ah me ! 
Where now are the boughs 

Of our family tree? 
No father to welcome, 

No mother to bless ; 
No sister to shield, 

And no brother's caress; 
The hearthstone deserted, — 

The love-light all fled ; 
The children far distant, 

The parent tree — dead. 
While the dreamer of old, 

With her lyre in her hand, 
Essayeth to sing 

Of her dear, native land. 



WELCOME TO TEACHERS. 

READ BEFORE THE LEE COUNTY INSTITUTE, AT FORT 
MADISON, IOWA, DECEMBER 27, 1 8 73. 

Sculptors of the finest marble, 

Molders of our plastic youth, 
Sowers of such seed as ripen 

Into everlasting truth, 
Shepherds with the noblest calling 

To be found in Life's broad way, 
Welcome ! and may Heaven pour blessings 

On your sacred cause to-day. 

Be not weary of well doing ! 

Help, encourage, guard, and — wait ; 
For you hold in trust the future 

Of our young and rising State. 
Whether, 'mid her regal sisters, 

She the queen or vassal be, 
Ye must say, for ye are molding, 

Through our youth, her destiny. 

167 



1 68 WELCOME TO TEACHERS. 

Like our broad, unbounded prairies 

Be your efforts, large and free ; 
Like our noble, chainless river, 

As it courses to the sea, 
Be your words to thrill their spirits, - 

Words that rouse the daring soul ; 
Words that wake to life and action 

Giant thoughts that spurn control. 

Ask ye not a higher calling 

Than the work ye dare to do, 
For remember your Redeemer 

Was a lowly teacher, too. 
And upon these days that point us 

Far away to Bethlehem's plain, 
Most of all we feel a Saviour 

Neither lived nor died in vain. 

As ye thus recall the lessons 

That His daily walks reveal, 
Imitate His self-denial, 

Imitate His holy zeal; 
Then your years of patient labor 

Will return you golden grain ; 
Ripened fields will bow in token 

That ye have not toiled in vain. 



CENTENNIAL. 

The scorching August rays fell fast, 

As through a Western village passed 

A youth, who bore, through sun and flame, 

A banner bearing high the name, 

"Centennial." 

The love that lit his lifted eye 
Revenge and malice might defy, 
And whether met by young or old, 
His answer followed, firm and bold, 

"Centennial." 

"Trust not Republicans, my son," 
An age$ Copperhead begun ; 
"They lurk along the mountain-side." 
But, jubilant, his voice replied, 

"Centennial!" 

" Beware of ' Rebs,' " old Croaker cries ; 
" Beware of trakors in disguise !" 
h 15 169 



1 7 o CENTENNIAL . 

But opening wide his arms for all, 
He shouts aloud the magic call, 

"Centennial!" 

And later, when, his goal attained, 
He paused where sunset's glory waned, 
His whisper floated to the stars 
That hid behind those crimson bars, 

"Centennial." 

The young moon, too, too coy to speak, 
Dropped golden kisses on his cheek ; 
Then, as he slept, she veiled her light 
And murmured, with her soft " Good-night,' 
"Centennial." 

And thus, by Heaven's own touch caressed, 
In dreams our hero's footfalls pressed 
The golden streets, where patriots heard, 
And softly breathed our Union-word, 

"Centennial." 



EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY- 
TWO. 

I'd a dream last night : in the dim twilight 

I was thrilled by a strange emotion ; 
For the Old Year came, with his withered frame, 
And led me on by a torch of flame 

To the verge of the p&hless ocean. 

In our onward flight, by the lurid light 

Beamed his eye with a spectral brightness ; 
And he shivered so in the drifting snow, 
While his silvered hairs fluttered to and fro 
O'er a forehead of ghostly whiteness. 

Yet he made no moan as we hurried on, 

While the stars bent, pitying, o'er him ; 
Though from rock and dell rose a parting knell, 
And the weird trees whispered a low farewell 
As their shadows knelt before him. 

But he paused with me by the grand old Sea, 
Where the Nighty in her glory slumbered ; 

171 



1 72 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY- TWO. 

And he gathered sand from the golden strand, 
And said, as it dropped from his palsied hand, 
" 'Tis thus that my hours are numbered. 



" Yet before I go to my couch of snow 

I will sing, though my voice may quiver ; 
For my heart is brave as yon dauntless wave 
That laughs ere it leaps to its ocean grave, 
To be locked in its depths forever. 

" But no thought of earth, with her joy and mirth, 

Upon memory's page is beaming; 
Not her sweet spring flowers, or her summer hours, 
Or the whispered echoes from love-lit bowers, 

Or her bright autumnal gleaming. 

"For these strains are old, you have heard them told 

By the years that have dawned and perished ; 
And the witching ways of their smiling Mays, 
And their golden, dreamy October days, 
Are like those I once fondly cherished. 

" So my voice shall sweep to the boundless deep, 
Far down 'neath the wild waves hoary, 



EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY- TWO. 173 

That madly tore from their glittering floor 
The magic chain, lest the listening shore 
Might learn of their viewless glory. 



" Then list to me, and I'll sing to thee 

Of the mystic depths where I've wandered free ; 

Of the coral halls and the diamond bed 

Where old Neptune sits with his pale-faced dead ; 

Of the fairy grottoes of gold and pearl, 

That the sea-nymphs weave for each fair young girl 

That the storm-king bears from the ocean's crest 

And lays, in her beauty, down to rest. 

" Oh, wonderful things have I seen below, 

Where the bright fern clings and the sea-flowers blow ; 

Where the mermaids gather and slyly hide 

Their red-lipped shells from the amorous tide ; 

Where shattered wrecks, with their gold-heaped spars, 

On the pebbles gleam like a heaven of stars. 

' 'There is one bright spot that I love to scan: 
'Tis the emerald couch of a valiant man, 
Whom the breakers' roar nor the flame-lit sky, 
Nor the prayers of kindred, could urge to fly. 
* 15* 



i 7 4 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY- TWO. 

1 The ship's on fire !' like a funeral knell 

On the hearts of that startled crew it fell ; 

And strong men shook, as the lurid glare 

On the waters gleamed like a hideous stare ; 

And women shrieked, as with fiendish sound 

The fiery serpents hemmed them round, 

And hissed in glee as their fangs were pressed 

Through the babes that slept on their mothers' breast. 

But the brave commander, with dauntless mien, 

At the helm of the sinking ship was seen ; 

And when maddened flames through the crackling shrouds 

And the hot air leaped till they licked the clouds, 

When the whirlwind force of the tempest's breath 

Swept the tottering wreck in the jaws of death, 

With the firm, strong grasp of an iron will 

He clung to the mast, and he clings there still. 

" The beautiful maidens adown the main 
Have tried to untwine his grasp in vain ; 
They made him a couch of the greenest moss 
And the snow-white down of the albatross ; 
And they placed at the head, for a funeral stone, 
The shell that could utter the softest moan ; 
And they tried to melt in their gentle hold 
The icy touch of those fingers cold. 
But they found it vain ; so with tender care 
They wove a pillow of sea-weeds there, 



175 



EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-TWO. 

And, circling around it, these matchless girls 
Knelt as they severed their own bright curls, 
And tossed them down till their sheen was pressed 
By the brave man's feet they had wooed to rest. 
And 'tis thus he stands, like a warrior bold, 
Chained to the wreck with his iron hold. 



"And far away, where the billows moan 

In a sadder strain and with softer tone, 

I have seen, in its infant beauty, lay 

A bright creation of human clay, 

As pure its cheek and its brow as fair 

As dews from heaven or the snow-flakes are ; 

And the dimpled hands round that cherub face 

Were fondly clasped in a long embrace, 

While the sleep that closed its unconscious eye 

Grew deep 'neath the waves' soft lullaby. 

A. lonesome thing seemed that babe to me, 

Rocked in the arms of the great, broad sea; 

A wee, small thing to have come so far 

All by itself, without spot or scar ; 

A frail, weak thing, with no hand to guide 

Such tender feet down the rugged tide. 

Yet I know when they launched that unguided barge 

The void in its mother's heart seemed large 



176 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY- TWO. 

As the ocean's self, and her grief as wild 
As the breakers dashing above her child. 

" But my strain must cease : — through the starlight clear 

I have heard the steps of the coming Year ; 

My pulses flutter, my eye grows dim, 

Yet once I was merry and strong like him. 

Oh, my brighter days ! — they are crowding back : 

I am gazing now on Spring's rosy track, 

Till the Summer comes with her broad, bright smile, 

And the Autumn follows her steps the while. 

But they vanish now, — yes, they all have flown, 

And left me here, with the Night, alone. 

I'm a frail old man, — all my bright dreams sped, 

My fond hopes crushed, and my loved ones dead. 

Well, my snow-couch waits me, — yon phantom bell 

Is tolling slowly my parting knell. 

I will rest me here where the wild waves sweep : — 

Good-night, fair Earth, I — must — sink — to — sleep." 



So the Old Year slept, and the New Year leaped 

From the clouds to the moaning billow; 
And he bade it stand on the golden strand, 
And guide his steps with its jeweled hand 
To the aged champion's pillow. 



EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-TWO. 

And the New Year bowed, while the starry crowd 

That had thronged the verge of even 
Marked his earnest gaze, and in hymns of praise 
They told the birth of this Prince of Days 
To the countless hosts of heaven. 

And the clouds drew up, from their magic cup, 

The tears that each gentle flower 
Had wept unseen when the earth was green, 
And faithless zephyrs, with flattering mien, 

Went wooing from bower to bower. 

And this treasured dew, when the year was new, 

They poured from their crystal chalice, 
Till it touched his brow, though I scarce knew how, 
Nor yet who had breathed the baptismal vow 
That rang through his midnight palace. 

Then I saw him fly through the sapphire sky, 

Earth's spells and her fetters scorning, 
Till he sat alone where his sire had flown, 
A crowned king on his royal throne : — 
And when I awoke — it was morning. 



H* 



177 



ANGEL WHISPERS. 

DEDICATED TO MY SISTER, MRS. SARAH A. AYRES. 

One beautiful evening in summer, 

Ere the sunbeams had vanished from sight, 

When they stooped down to kiss the green prairies, 
And bid all the flowers " Good-night" ; 

When the last lingering rays that descended 

Fell full in the waterfall's face, 
And caught the bright ripples, while dancing, 

To give them a parting embrace ; 

Sad and doubting I sat by the brook-side, 

And gazed on expiring Day, 
Until Thought fell asleep in my bosom 

And Memory flew softly away. 

The clouds that hung lightly above me 

Wore colors of beauty untold : 
Displaying, in exquisite blending, 

Their crimson and purple and gold. 
178 . 



ANGEL WHISPERS. 179 

The Breeze had forgotten its murmur, 

The Zephyr had banished its sigh, 
And echoes of heavenly anthems 

Seemed dropping from harps in the sky. 

Anon came the dim, dreamy twilight 

To bend o'er our wild-flower track; 
For, like truants, the sunbeams strayed earthward, 

While darkness kept drawing them back. 

Soon the long, waving grass of the meadow, 

The waterfall sparkling and bright, 
The trees and the church on the hill-side, 

Were hid by the curtain of Night. 

Then I sighed, in the fullness of sadness, 
To think that the sunbeams had died, 

Until white pinions fluttered around me, 
And low whispers woke at my side : 

" The gloom that the Night casts o'er nature 

The splendor of Day ever mars, 
But 'tis only the darkness, O mortal ! 

Can bring out the light of the stars. 



180 ANGEL WHISPERS. 

" The soul, like the heavens above thee, 
Has its seasons of sunlight and gloom ; 

And often the mental horizon 

Is clouded by thoughts of the tomb. 

" When the beams of Prosperity gladden, 

Our troubles are laid in the dust ; 
And 'tis only Adversity's mantle 

Can bring out the starlight of Trust. 

"Go ! learn of this emblem a lesson, — 
Let Faith find a home in thy breast, 

And Contentment will follow her footsteps, 
And sing all repinings to rest." 

There was silence, — I gazed all around me 
For the source of those whispers of love ; 

But naught met my wandering vision 
Save the stars looking down from above. 

Since then, when earth-shadows enfold me, 
New strength to my spirit is given ; 

For I know it is only the darkness 
Can brhvg oat the starlight of heaven. 



MY FATHER'S BIRTHDAY. 

OCTOBER 15, 1859. 

It is dreamy, soft October, 

And there's brightness everywhere; 
From the golden sheaves of sunlight 

Gleaming in broad fields of air, 
To the sparkling, dancing ripples 

That go singing to the shore, 
Breathing low, to drooping branches, 

" Sweet October's come once more." 

Hallowed month ! thy lights and shadows 

Waft me back to other years ; 
Thou hast led me to the greensward 

Where my childhood's home appears. 
And I pause, expectant, listening 

For a footfall as of yore ; 
For the tender words of welcome 

I shall hear Qn earth no more. 

16 181 



1 8 2 MY FA THER S BIR THDA Y 

Oh, he loved thee, rare October, 

With thy mellow, dreamy skies ! 
And he called thy breezy murmurs 

Nature's soothing lullabies 
To the shivering, palsied blossoms 

That she gathered to her breast, 
Spreading o'er them leaves of scarlet, 

That the weary things might rest. 

Ne'er till now, sweet Psalm of Autumn, 

Heard I thy familiar strain, 
But I heard his voice, in chorus, 

Chant a jubilant refrain. 
Mine the loss, — the mist that gathers 

Veils thy smiles but from my eyes, 
For I know that he is keeping 

This October in the skies. 

Has his chainless spirit wandered 

From the realms of perfect day, 
Through earth's shades and damps to greet me 

Upon this, his natal day ? 
Oh, it is not far for loved ones 

When the silken cord is riven, 
For they only close their eyelids 

To re-open them in heaven. 



MY FA THE I? S BIR THDA Y 183 

"Lift me up into the twilight;" 

When my failing sight grows dim, 
May the light of Faith be near me, 

As heaven's twilight was to him ! 
When I've quaffed the latest portion 

Of this life's mysterious cup, 
May his soul be near, in waiting, 

To enfold and lift me up ! 



THE END OF THE RAINBOW. 

WRITTEN FOR LITTLE ETTA AYRES. 

" Come, Nellie !" I cried, on a clear April day, 
When the sunbeams kept kissing the shadows away, 
" The rainbow has lit on the hill, and, you know, 
We might find heaps of gold at the end of the bow." 

We were young, foolish children, sweet Nellie and I, 
And we thought that the hill-top was close to the sky; 
Believed, too, because we were told it was so, 
We should find "lots" of gold at the end of the bow. 

So onward we trudged, over meadows of green, 
Whose clover-blooms brightened their emerald sheen ; 
Then down from the hill to the valley below, 
And gazed all around for the end of the bow. 

" Not here !" I said, sadly; but Nellie replied, 

" It is hid in yon grass by the waterfall's side ; 

Run fast ! if you move o'er the pebbles so slow, 

I'm sure I'll be first at the end of the bow." 
184 



THE END OF THE RAINBOW. 185 

We found not the treasures we searched for till night, 
But Nellie, the sweet, fragile blossom, was right ; 
From this valley of shades she was first called to go 
To the clime where is resting the end of the bow. 

Where rainbows of glory eternally play, 
Our Nellie is singing with seraphs to-day; 
And her beautiful pinions are folded, I know, 
In the fullness of joy at the end of the bow. 



:6* 



THE DYING SOLDIER. 

With forehead throbbing from pain, 

With lips that were burning and dry, 
A soldier lay, between heaps of slain, 

By his comrades left to die. 
Moans ! moans ! moans ! 

The air reeled, sick as they fell, 
Yet still he sang the " Song of the War,' 

In the tone of a funeral knell. 

"Fight ! fight! fight! 

Through the summer's fervid heat ; 
And fight ! fight ! fight ! 

'Mid rain and snow and sleet. 
Scarcely an hour to rest, 

Scarcely an hour to pray, 
Until, like me, a comrade falls 

In the midst of the deadly fray. 

" March ! march ! march ! 
Till the limbs are numb and sore ; 
86 



THE DYING SOLDIER. 187 

And march ! march ! march ! 

Till the feet are bathed in gore. 
Grown so athirst for blood 

That, while halting, by woods or streams, 
We fall asleep to meet our foes,. 

And shoot them down in our dreams. 



"On! on! on! 

Brave comrades, with purpose true ! 
Your steadfast souls must never swerve 

From the work ye dare to do. 
For the Union ye must defend, — 

Ay ! barter your lives to save, — 
Now stands, like a reeling, tottering ship, 

On the brink of a yawning grave. 

" Peace ! peace ! peace ! 

O God ! will it never come ? 
I can almost hear that pleading cry 

From lips now pale and dumb ; 
Can almost catch the words, 

As they echo, near and far, 
Through the widow's plaint and the orphan's wail, 

' We have had enough of War !' 



THE DYING SOLDIER. 

" Home ! home ! home ! 

What memories o'er me steal! 
It were sweet to die with the loved ones there, 

In the room where we used to kneel 
And offer our evening prayer 

For those who had gone to fight ; 
Ah me ! what a bitter time was that 

When I breathed a sad l Good-night !' 

"I think that I tasted all 

The wormwood in sorrow's cup, 
When Mary covered her streaming eyes 

And held the baby up, — 
When mother, so old and frail, 

Came in for a parting kiss, 
And prayed we might meet in a better world, 

If not again in this. 

" Home ! home ! home ! 

Oh, would they. were with me here ! 
To press their lips to my burning cheeks, 

Or dew them with a tear. 
Fond heart ! it is hard to go 

When life seems so full of joy ! 
Who will shield my wife and the aged one, 

And my helpless baby boy?" 



THE DYING SOLDIER. 

With forehead throbbing from pain, 

With lips that were fevered and dry, 
A soldier lay, between heaps of slain, 

By his comrades left to die. 
The struggle — the fight was o'er; 

His soul, on that summer's even, 
Had floated off from the field of blood, 

To Home and Peace and Heaven. 



CALL ME THINE OWN. 

Call me thine own, dearest, 

Call me thine own ; 
Whisper it over 

In love's gentlest tone. 
Murmur it oft 

In the stillness of night; 
Tenderly breathe it 

At morn's early light. 
Naught in the wide world 

Can thrill like thy tone ; 
Then call me thine own, dearest, 

Call me thine own. 

Call me thine own, love; 

Far dearer to me 
Are such words than bright gems 

From the depths of the sea. 
Like music the sweetest, 

Oft wakened before, 
My heart drinks them in, 

And keeps thirsting for more. 



190 



CALL ME THINE OWN igi 

Oh, the purest of joy 

-This fond heart e'er has known, 
Has been born of this thought, — 

Thou hast called me thine own. 

Then call me thine own, dear ; 

Embalmed with thy breath, 
Those accents will linger 

To cheer me till death. 
Whether severed by fate 

From the dearest and best, 
Or, in rapture untold, 

I recline on thy breast, 
Still, still round my path 

Let this blessing be thrown, — 
That thou hast, dost, and ever wilt, 

Call me thine own. 



GOD'S CANDLE. 

DEDICATED TO MRS. ALICE BALDWIN, OF BURLINGTON, 
IOWA, THE "LITTLE GIRL" OF YORE. 

"Oh, isn't it pretty?" a little girl cried, 

With her bright eyes upturned, as she stood by my side. 

"It is just like the moon that we both used to see 

When Addie and I sat on grandfather's knee. 

I wonder," she said, as I gave her a kiss, 

"If God looked at that when He went to make this." 

I brushed from her forehead a tiny, stray curl, 
And pressed to my bosom the dear little girl ; 
Then told her the moon was the same she had seen 
Ere she crossed the great rivers and prairies of green. 
"Then why," she said, quickly, appearing to doubt, 
"Does it sometimes shine brightly and sometimes go 
out?" 

She paused, mused a moment, then, turning to me, 
And clapping her hands in her innocent glee, 
192 



GOD'S CANDLE. I93 

"I know now," she answered, in tones of delight : 
" God's candle ! He carries it with Him at night ; 
He takes it through heaven wherever He goes, 
And that's why it moves through the sky, I suppose. 

" And I think I can guess why He brought it to-night, 
And why He is looking at me by its light : 
At grandfather's knee every evening I pray, 
And He thinks I'll forget it because I'm away." 

Then, kneeling, she murmured the prayer she was taught, 

And added, " Dear Father, I have not forgot, 

But please take Thy lamp while I'm praying to Thee, 

And hold it for Addie, that she, too, may see." 

I turned to the sky as the prayer upward flew : 

A cloud hid the face of the Night Queen from view. 

The little one rose, as she said, with a smile, 

"I knew He would hold it for Addie awhile." 



AWAY! 

Away, away ! thou kneel'st in vain, 

I will not hear thy plea ; 
'Tis worse than useless, fawning one, 

To bend the knee to me ! 
Too late, too late those earnest vows 

Are offered at love's shrine; 
Though flowing from thy heart, they wake 

No answering tone in mine. 

Away, away ! I loved thee once 

With all a woman's soul; 
Thou read'st it in the varying blush 

That would not brook control. 
And thou didst smile a strange, cold smile 

Whene'er our glances met 
That almost crushed my young life out, — 

Think'st thou I can forget? 

Away, away ! I spurn thee now, 
For time has burst the spell ; 
194 



AWAY! 195 

Thou knowest that I loved thee once, 

" Not wisely, but too well." 
Hadst thou not deemed me all too weak 

To clasp to thy proud breast, 
Freely would I have given all 

Affection's mines possessed. 

Away, away ! thou need'st not speak 

To the once " thoughtless girl;" 
Thy words, if uttered, would but fall 

As rain-drops upon pearl. 
Reason has triumphed, and 'twould seem 

But mockery to begin 
To woo and flatter when remains 

The shade of what has been. 

Away, away ! another's glance 

Has fondly met my own ; 
Another's voice has thrilled my frame 

With its low, witching tone ; 
Another's lips have trembled with 

The hopes they dared confess ; 
Another for my hand has sued, 

And I have answered "Yes." 



PARTING SONG. 

SUNG BY THE GRADUATING CLASS OF THE KEOKUK HIGH 
SCHOOL, MAY 3, 1 872. 

Our farewell must to-day be spoken, 

The time draws near when we must part, 
Yet Friendship holds our chain unbroken, 

And clasps the links that bind each heart. 
And ever, in the years before us, 

Will Memory guard with jealous care 
The golden hours that floated o'er us 

When youth flew by with visions fair. 



While o'er the Past our thoughts are yearning, 

Our deepest gratitude is due 
To him who, all our needs discerning, 

Has kept life's highest aims in view. 
The guiding hand so ready ever 

To point our feet to Wisdom's way, 
The voice that strengthened each endeavor, 

We leave with fond regret to-day. 
[96 



PARTING SONG. 

And ere we go take our places 

'Mid changing scenes on earth's broad mart, 
Love stamps these dear familiar faces 

In deathless lines on every heart. 
Though future joys be crushed by sorrow, 

Though hopes be changed to doubts and fears, 
Undimmed throughout our life's To-morrow 

Will gleam the light of other years. 



197 



17* 



THE WORLD WANTS WOMEN. 

The world wants women, brave, reliant, true, 

Such as will help the common good along, — 
Workers, to keep life's highest aims in view, 

Uphold the Right and strive to crush the Wrong. 
Women to lift their erring sisters up, 

When, by the wayside, they may chance to fall ; 
Women with outstretched hands to snatch the cup 

From manhood's lips, and weaken thus his thrall. 

The world wants mothers, earnest hearts that feel 

True sympathy for childhood's hopes and fears; 
Lives that their wealth of tenderness reveal 

Through all the changes of the circling years. 
Whether, with steadfast feet, the children climb 

Life's rugged paths, or falter on the track, 
They need the magnet, wondrous and sublime, 

Of mother-love to hold or draw them back. 

The world wants daughters; when the tottering feet, 
7'he palsied limbs, declare strength, vigor flown, 
198 



THE WORLD WANTS WOMEN. 

When aged eyes are dimming, it is sweet 
To know the pilgrims journey not alone, — 

That willing hands are near to gently guide ; 
That loving hearts will cheer them to the vale ; 

That tender voices, as they near the tide, 
Will whisper of the Love that cannot fail. 

The world wants sisters, gentle, faithful, pure, 

Stronger in purpose than the hosts of sin ; 
Sisters to warn, encourage, and allure 

Those who might else be led to "enter in." 
Oh, turn ye, mothers, sisters, daughters, turn 

From Fashion's giddy vortex ere too late, 
Strive the true aim of Womanhood to learn, 

And cease to charge your blighted hopes to Fate. 



199 



MAYMIE. 



AGED TEN YEARS. 



Who that has seen some household idol fade 

Like opening bud before the chilling blast, 
Can faintly know His sufferings when He said, 

" If Thou wilt, Father, let this cup be passed." 
And whosoever, when that life hath fled, 

Can bow submissively and drain the cup, 
And cry, "Thy will be done," though Hope has fled, 

Has faith enough through life to bear her up. 

I knelt beside her and, despairing, prayed ; 

Her little, pleading voice caught up the strain : 
" Oh, spare me, Father, for her sake," she said ; 

" Give me back life and strength and love again !" 
" Or if, my Father, it seems best to Thee 

From future woe to take my treasured one, 
Do as Thou wilt, for Thou alone canst see : 

Give me but faith to cry, ' Thy will be done !' " 



MA YMIE. 20T 

I rose and kissed her while she faintly smiled ; 

Her breath grew shorter and her pulse beat low ; 
" The morning dawneth ; 'tis thy birthday, child ! 

God gave thee to me just ten years ago. 
Thy father laid thee in these waiting arms 

Amid the shadows of the morning dim, 
And now, with all thy childhood's added charms, 

I yield, and give thee back to God and him." 

The dying grasp was tightened round my own, 

As if to bear me with her in her flight ; 
" Thou'rt going, love," I said, "but not alone: 

He bears thee -upward to the world of light. 
Thy mother's voice shall be the last on earth 

To soothe her darling ere the cord is riven, 
And, at thy spirit's new and glorious birth, 

Thy father's first to welcome thee to heaven." 

Thus she went from us in the morning gray, 
Her earthly and her heavenly birthday one ; 

Leaving behind her only pulseless clay, 

And a crushed heart to cry, "Thy will be done." 

We robed her, as she said, in spotless white, 
And lifted grandma for a parting kiss ; 

Then bore the lovely burden from her sight 

And bade the children come. How they would miss 
i* 



202 MA YMIE. 

The kindling eye, the earnest, welcoming voice, 

The hand's warm pressure, and the beaming smile ! 
But they all gathered there, both girls and boys, 

And as they stood around, and gazed, the while, 
I bade them sing the songs she loved so well : 

Their Sabbath greetings and their closing lays ; 
And, as their trembling accents rose and fell, 

I felt an angel voice had joined their praise. 

'Twas her delight in concert thus to meet 

The children in the Sabbath morning's glow ; 
To sit and learn with them the story sweet 

How Jesus came to bless them here below. 
And can it be that never, never more, 

Her joyful voice will join the sacred songs? 
That not till I have reached the shining shore 

My ear will catch the tone for which it longs? 

Yet hush ! sad heart ! my loss is her release ! 

What is the school below to that above? 
How will our Sabbaths here compare in peace 

With that serener day that dawns above ? 
What melody, what cadence half so sweet 

As swells when angel-fingers sweep the strings? 
What prayers, with such adoring love replete, 

As when the seraphs bow with folded wings? 



MA YMIE. 203 

While here, she loved each prophet's life to trace, 

And tell of all the trials they had passed ; 
But there, she sits with Moses, face to face, 

In the fair Canaan that was his at last. 
And father Abraham will not pass her by : 

I thought of Isaac all the night she died, 
And asked, as searchingly I turned my eye, 

If aught for my pet lamb might be supplied. 

O holy Samuel, guide her o'er the strands, 

And through the Heavenly Temple, large and fair, 
Because the picture of thy clasped hands 

In early childhood bowed her soul in prayer. 
Show her where Daniel sits, — where David sings, 

In loftier measure, more seraphic Psalms, 
Then lead her gently to the King of kings, 

Who bade His children here to " Feed His lambs." 

And, mother Mary, I must plead with thee 

Sometimes to clasp her to thy loving breast; 
Else her fond, yearning heart will long for me, 

Though heaven be gained and all its joys possessed. 
Not to the Virgin Mary do I kneel ; 

Not to the holy saint my numbers flow ; 
But to the mother, whose true heart can feel, 

Because it once ensured a kindred woe. 



204 



MA YMIE. 



And, Maymie, when thy golden harp is tried, 

When strains of love fall sweetly from thy tongue, 
Fold thy white wings, and at thy Saviour's side 

Let the wild yearnings of thy heart be sung. 
Kneel, darling, kneel, and ask for what thou wilt ; 

I know the wish e'en angels may not smother: 
Not to be made more free from sin and guilt, 

But that thy mission be to guard thy mother. 

And if my spirit falter ere this cup 

Of bitterness be drained — this large supply, 
Reach down thy little hands and hold me up, 

Else I must wholly sink, and, helpless, die. 
Yes, darling, pray ! thy earnest voice can plead 

That on thy viewless pinions thou may'st come, 
To hover near, in this my greatest need, 

And then be near, at last, to guide me home. 

Oh ! man may climb the topmost round of fame, 

And smile in triumph on the rocky steep ; 
In characters of blood may write his name, 

While woman's portion is to watch and weep. 
Yet who would barter all the love that glows 

With quenchless fervor in a mother's heart, 
E'en though that love be bought with anguish-throes, 

For all that man can reach or wealth impart? 



MA YMIE. 205 

And even though, like mine, her hopes be crushed, 

Her blossom blighted and her day-star fled, 
Though the glad voice is here forever hushed, 

And the sweet lips that sang all cold and dead, — 
'Tis not in hopeless grief her head is bowed, 

'Tis not in wild despair she meets His will ; 
For, mounting past the coffin and the shroud, 

Her soul is mother of an angel still. 

How saintly was the look her features wore 

Before I saw the coffin-lid go down ! 
That marble brow, I kissed it o'er and o'er, 

And left my tears among her tresses brown. 
That cold, cold cheek ! Those lips, so pale and still, 

Would never more unto mine own be pressed ; 
Those little hands, so quick to do my will, 

Were crossed and quiet on a silent breast. 

Oh ! be ye guarded what ye do or say 

Before a mother when her child is dead ; 
Move with hushed tread beside the pulseless clay, 

And in low whispers let your words be said. 
Remember of her life it was a part ; 

Remember it was nourished at her breast ; 
That she would guard it still from sudden start, 

The ringing footfalj, or untimely jest. 
18 



206 MA YMIE. 

We bore her back to the old home she left 

With strange reluctance only months before ; 
How doubly there my poor heart seemed bereft 

To miss her smiling welcome at the door ! 
The constant feet that used to stand and wait 

To welcome me were gone : I could not see 
Her form come bounding through the wicket-gate, 

Or hear her tones of joyful, childish glee. 

We moved the sod from off her father's breast, 

And laid her down to her serene repose ; 
Upon his bosom she will sweetly rest, 

As withered bud beside the parent rose. 
Together may their dust be mingled there, 

E'en as their souls are knit beyond the tide ! 
Together may their deathless spirits share 

The boundless glory of the Other Side ! 



'TIS NOT DEATH. 

'Tis not death, but only gliding 

Upward through the pearly gate, 
Just to see that all is ready ; 

Just a. little while to wait. 
Just to fan the Eden bowers 

With her new-tried angel wings, 
And to sweep her snowy fingers 

O'er her harp of golden strings. 

'Tis not death, but only mingling 

With those bright, angelic throngs, 
That the blessed ones may teach her 

All their grand, triumphant songs. 
She will learn them of the angels ; 

She will know them when we come, 
And, before we reach the portal, 

We shall hear her " Welcome home !" 

'Tis not death, but only hastening 
To the loyed ones gone before, 

207 



208 'TIS NOT DEATH. 

Just to learn how love unmeasured 
Shall be hers for evermore. 

Just to feel her spirit folded 
In a father's warm embrace, 

And to gaze, with joy and rapture, 
On an angel sister's face. 

'Tis not death : the soul's releasing — 

Bursting of its prison bars — 
Bounding back to God who gave it — 

Mounting upward to the stars — ■ 
Is but life — 'tis life eternal 

Here to close the weary eyes 
But to open them, with transport, 

On the beams of Paradise. 

'Tis not death : we have not lost her : 

§he has only gone before, 
Just to hold a welcome ready 

When we reach the shining shore. 
Earthly ties are loosening round us, 

Earthly hopes are laid aside ; 
Here in flesh, but there in spirit, — 

Heaven is home since Maymie died. 



THE SADDEST THING. 

I've done the saddest thing to-day 

That ever fell to woman's lot : 
I've folded all her clothes away, 

And every treasured plaything brought 
To lay beside them, one by one ; 

Her birthday gifts and Christmas toys, 
And then to weep, when all was done, 

O'er buried hopes and vanished joys. 

Her little -dress, in childish haste, 

Her own dear hands had laid aside ; 
Upon the pins that held the waist 

I pressed my lips, and softly cried. 
Within her gaiters, 'neath my chair, 

Two half-worn, crimson stockings lay, 
And with a pang of wild despair 

I bent and hid them all away. 

The purple ribbon that she wore, 
The coral t rings and pin were there, 

i 8* 209 



2io THE SADDEST THING. 

And just beneath them, on the floor, 
The silken band that tied her hair. 

A handkerchief that bore her name 
Was folded like a tiny shawl ; 

And, wrapped within this snowy frame, 
Just as she left it, lay her doll. 

It bled afresh, this wounded heart, 

As if with some new sorrow stung, 
As, with a wild and sudden start, 

I came to where her cloak was hung. 
I caught it, sobbing, to my breast, 

As if it held the missing form, 
And in low murmurs fondly blest 

What once had kept my darling warm. 

Her gentle fingers seemed to glide 

Across my brow to soothe my pain, 
As from the pockets at the side 

I drew the gloves that still retain 
The impress of those loving hands, 

Whose magic touch seemed fraught with power 
To cheer me 'mid the scorching sands 

Of sorrow, in life's desert hour. 

Her little hat no more will take 
To its embrace her sunny hair; 



THE SADDEST THING. 

I felt that my poor heart must break 

To see it lying, empty, there. 
The beaming eyes it used to shade 

No more with trustful glance will shine ; 
The grass the early spring hath made 

Is growing 'twixt her brow and mine. 

Her silk and thimble both were laid 

With thread and scissors on the stand ; 
Her dolly's dress, but partly made, 

Seemed waiting for the molding hand. 
The drawing of a blighted vine, 

Torn, ruthless, from a withered tree, 
Meet emblems of her life and mine, 

Were the last lines she traced for me. 

Oh ! was there ever grief like this ? 

Can sorrow take a form more wild 
Than sweeps across us when we miss 

The presence of a darling child ? 
And is there any thought that cheers 

Like this, the heart by anguish riven, — 
That Time was given to mark our tears, 

Eternity to measure Heaven ? 



I MUST LEARN TO LIVE WITHOUT 
THEE. 

I must learn to live without thee, must, unmurmuring, 

learn to wait 
With my soul bowed down within me, weary, lone and 

desolate ; 
Though my poor, crushed heart still yearneth, all her 

pleading cries are vain, 
For the shining ones who took thee may not bear thee 

back again. 
Oh ! it seemeth so mysterious that the Father thought it 

best 
Thus to rob me of my treasure, when the mansions of 

the blest 
Were all full to overflowing, while around the mercy-seat 
Such a multitude of voices joined in praises low and 

sweet. 

I must learn to live without thee, but 'tis only for a time, — 
I shall see thee, know thee, love thee, in that fairer, purer 
clime ! 

212 



/ MUST LEARN TO LIVE WITHOUT THEE. 213 

I will search among the angels till I find thy radiant brow, 
And will fold thee to my bosom as I long to clasp thee 

now. 
Thou wilt pause to bid me welcome, though the bright, 

angelic throng 
May have taught thee every anthem, every full and 

glorious song, — 
Thou wilt hush thy harp to greet me ; thou wilt show 

me, by thy choice, 
E'en the minstrelsy of heaven may not drown a mother's 

voice. 

I must learn to live without thee ; thou wilt watch and 

wait for me 
Till the boatman comes to bear me over Death's dark, 

mystic sea ; 
'Twill be easier far to heed him, when his summons bids 

me come, 
Than if thou wert left to mourn me in a clouded earthly 

home ! 
Oh ! the thought of thy fond welcome is the day-star of 

my soul, 
And in dreams I leap to meet thee, spurning distance and 

control ; 
So I am not quite forsaken, though of life and love bereft, 
While thy spirit hovers o'er me and this blessed hope is 

left. 



ANNIVERSARY. 



TO MAYMIE. 



When first thou went'st my yearning heart, 

With many a low, despairing cry, 
Kept reaching up, with sudden start, 

As if to draw thee from the sky. 
And when they said, " Be reconciled, 

And know it is the Father's will," 
I only moaned, " My child ! my child !" 

And held my arms to clasp thee still. 
But vain were all my pleading cries ; 

My prayers, my longings, all were vain : 
My wild lament might reach the skies, 

But could not call thee back again. 

And time w r ore on ; the summer days 

Dragged, with slow step, their weary length, 

While upward still my earnest gaze 

Would wander as I prayed for strength. 
214 



ANNIVERSAR Y. 215 

I mind me when the great eclipse 

Spread its black wings o'er earth and sea, 
With eager eye and parted lips 

I stood to catch a glimpse of thee. 
I said, " If from the jasper wall 

The angels lean toward friends below, 
Thy searching glance may on me fall, 

Thy gentle whispers soothe my woe." 
But through the shade no gleam was given, 

I could but watch and yearn-in vain ; 
It only met the frown of Heaven, 

My wish to call thee back again. 

And so, as each returning year 

Brought round the day that claimed my child, 
With bursting sigh and blinding tear 

It found me still unreconciled. 
It seemed so long to watch and wait : 

My selfish sorrow made me blind ; 
I charged my bitter loss to fate, 

Nor felt the chastening Hand was kind. 
The wild, wild wish to have thee here, 

Close to my heart, in joy or pain, 
Was all I craved, — to feel thee near, 

To have thee, darling, back again. 



2 1 6 ANNI VERSA R Y. 

But now, oh now, I see it all 

With vision clear, with open eyes, 
And would not, if I could, recall 

Thy deathless spirit from the skies. 
Nor will I think the blight and gloom 

That sear and shade a world like ours, 
Are known to those who rest in bloom 

And brightness in the Eden bowers. 
Forever safe, forever blest, 

'Tis sweet to know thou wilt remain ; 
And from that true, abiding Rest 

I would not call thee back again. 



LINES ON RECEIVING MAYMIE'S 
PICTURE. 

Artist, I thank thee for the pictured face, 
Thy genius untranscended bade thee trace ; 
The perfect image of the darling one 
Who waits for me when life's sad dream is done. 
How bitter my regret, when last I pressed 
Her marble cheek unto my yearning breast, 
To feel that never more those earnest eyes 
Could give returning look of glad surprise ; 
That never more those pale, cold lips could press 
Mine own in their outgushing tenderness ! 
And when they thought to comfort me, and said 
That was but dust, — the soul forever fled, — 
It made me yearn more wildly for the clay, — 
The precious features they had hid away. 
One sunny tress was all that I might claim 
To treasure up and link with her dear name ; 
And a rude picture, so unlike the real, 
It pleased me best to fancy an ideal 
Of what she was, and send Thought softly back 
To meet her, bousding over Memory's track. 
k 19 217 



218 LINES ON RECEIVING MAYMIK S PICTURE. 

But, oh ! how like a vision from the skies 

Now dawns on me the light of those dear eyes ! 

How my pulse quickens as those lips of flame 

Seem waiting my approach, to breathe my name! 

The silken lashes, brow and cheek so clear, 

And sunny tresses too, all, all are here ! 

Ah ! Heaven forgive me if I dare to bow 

To idol such as this, and teach me how 

To hush my spirit, that expectant waits, 

And flaps her pinions 'gainst her prison-gates, 

Impatient to be gone. This mirrored face 

Seems sent to comfort me — to fill her place ; 

To sit beside me in my silent room, 

As was her wont, and cheat me of my gloom. 

Artist, I love my lyre, and though each strain 
That wakes beneath my touch may sleep again 
Without evoking a responsive thrill 
From other hearts, I love to sound it still. 
But, were I called my treasure to resign 
And choose a rarer gift, it would be thine, 
The inspiration of thy magic Art ; 
The power to soothe and thrill the yearning heart. 



OUT OF THE ARK. 

COMPOSED FOR AND SUNG BY MRS. JOHN WYCOFF, DURING 
THE REVIVAL MEETINGS AT KEOKUK, IOWA. 

They recked not of danger, those scoffers of old, 

Whom Noah was chosen to warn ; 
From constant transgression their hearts had grown cold, 

And they answered his pleadings with scorn. 
Yet daily he called, "Oh, come, sinners, come! 

Believe and prepare to embark; 
Receive his kind message, and know there is room 

For all who will fly to the ark. 
Then come ! oh, come ! oh, come ! 

There's refuge alone in the ark." 

They were not persuaded ; unheeding they stood, 

Unmoved by his warning and prayer, 
Till the prophet passed in from the oncoming flood, 

And left them to hopeless despair. 
The flood-gates were open, the deluge came on, 

While Heaven, offended, grew dark ; 

219 



220 OUT OF THE ARK. 

They turned when too late : every foothold was gone ; 

And they perished in sight of the ark. 
Too late, too late, too late ! 

They perished in sight of the ark. 

O sinners ! the heralds of mercy implore ; 

They cry, like the patriarch, " Come !" 
The old ship of Zion is moored on your shore ; 

Her captain declares there is room. 
The faithful have warned, believers have prayed, 

Yet you cling to the sin-deadened host ; 
And soon of your perishing souls will be said, 

They listened, refused, and were lost, — 
Were lost, were lost, were lost ! 

Hear, sinner, your doom — they were lost ! 



EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY- 
NINE. 

Oh, a grand old vessel was Fifty-Nine, 

And a captain brave had she ; 
For eighteen hundred and more stout ships 

He had steered over life's rough sea. 
Eighteen hundred and more stout ships, 

Bound not for different goals, 
But all for the same, and freighted down 

With cargoes of human souls. 

And some of these souls were seared by crime ; 

Some, sin had made foul and black ; 
While others were pure as the flakes of snow 

That cover our wild-flower track. 
There were souls of monarchs, and souls of kings, 

(The souls of their subjects, too ;) 
And some were treacherous, false, and vile, 

While others were heavenly true. 

There were souls of brokers, bare, flinty things, 
All shaved to tlie very core, 

19* 221 



222 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY-NINE. 

For even their honor was loaned on time, 

At a hundred per cent, or more. 
There were coquettes' souls of chameleon dyes, 

And bachelors', knotty as pine, 
And these unsocial and selfish souls 

Came alone to old Fifty-Nine. 

And old Captain Time, as they came aboard, 

Counted all he could see ; 
But some were so narrow and shriveled up, 

That they smuggled their passage free. 

It was noon of night when the ship was launched, 

But the ocean was calm and clear ; 
And merrily on, with her motley crew, 

Went dancing the proud New Year. 
On, past the glaciers of snow and ice 

That decked the receding shore ; 
On to the isles where the spring-time sleeps, 

Till she hears Time's distant oar. 

And the forests woke when they heard afar 

The flutter of coming sails ; 
And whispered softly a low salute, 

That was borne by the passing gales. 
And every eye on the vessel's deck 

Was turned toward that vision bright ; 



EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY-NINE. 

And those who worshiped at Nature's shrine 
Were thrilled with a wild delight. 

For those isles looked fair as a gleam of heaven 
Through the sunset's golden bars ; 

Or like beauty's cheek, when its mantling flush 
Is seen by the light of stars. 

The ship was moored where the gentle flowers 

Breathed fragrance on all around, 
And the hours to some of the host within 

Brought blessings and peace profound. 
But, hark ! from the deck of old Fifty-Nine 

A shout of defiance comes ; 
Then the tramp of feet, and the clang of war, 

And the roll of advancing drums. 

"To arms !" is echoed, in thunder-tones, 

Through the din of the cannon's roar; 
While sword and spear and the fair green earth 

Are sated with human gore. 
But Captain Time says never a word 

To still the contending foes ; 
He has promised to steer the ship to port, 

And has no hotirs to lose. 



223 



224 



EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND E/ETY-N/NE. 

He is out, 'mid the blast and the shivering sails, 

Tolling the funeral bell, 
And every soul that can hear the sound 

Sighs at the parting knell. 
It tolls for one who has journeyed far, 

Whose labors a world may boast ; 
Who has trodden Atlantic's crowded shore 

And Pacific's quiet coast; 

Whose wanderings led him o'er Southern plains, 

Where eternal sunshine sleeps ; 
And up to the loftiest Alpine height 

Through snow-drifts' 'wildering steeps. 
But Life's work is done, and the mourners pause 

That the billows his dirge may sing, 
As the dust of Humboldt is laid to rest 

On the breast of the gentle Spring. 

And slowly now is the vessel turned 

From those bright, enchanting isles, 
To hasten on where the Summer waits 

With her witching, sunny smiles. 
And it is not strange that those saddened hearts 

Grew light as they neared her bowers, 
And caught the gleam of her azure robes 

Begirt with a zone of flowers ; 



EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY-NINE. 



225 



Or that Captain Time, though his form is bent, 

With labor and age and care, 
Should feel a thrill through his palsied frame 

When his ship was anchored there ; 
That the hoary seaman should half forget 

The weight of unnumbered years, 
When her rippling laugh, through ten thousand rills, 

Was borne to his aged ears. 

But see ! as they coast round those India isles, 

Where the flowers of the orange blow, 
Where the bulbul warbles its vesper hymns 

By the light of the fire-fly's glow, 
With the speed of thought he has left her side, 

And fair Summer stands alone : 
For off to the aft of old Fifty-Nine 

Was a sound like a dying groan. 

He has reached the spot, and he chants this dirge 

As they bear the dust to shore, 
And lay it down in its lonely bed 

With a sigh of "Nevermore" : 

" Toll ! toll ! for a mighty soul 

Is anchored in harbor now ; 
A mind creative, whose giant thoughts 

Made men to his genius bow. 

K* 



226 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY-NINE. 

"Old Fifty-Nine, you are not so strong 

Since you yielded up this prize ; 
You will feel no more his sustaining arm 

When feuds and dissensions rise. 
He will slumber here while incense sweet 

From the date- and the palm-tree float ; 
And a nation will hold in its heart of hearts 

The name of the statesman Choate. 

" But reef the topsail ! we may not wait 

To sigh o'er the mighty dead, 
For I know, from the surge of yon mountain waves, 

There are breakers and shoals ahead. 
Now cheerily, lads ! though the billows dash, 

And the morrow bring cloudy weather, 
We can bring her through with her motley crew 

If we only ' pull together.' " 

And onward now, where grave Autumn sits 

In her scarlet robes and golden, 
And presses the juice from the purple grape 

Like matrons in vineyards olden; 
Where the blushing fruit from the ardent gaze 

Of the sun drops down, to cover 
The deepening flush that might else betray 

Her heart to her distant lover: — 



EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY-NINE. 

To this calm retreat Time hastens on, 

To rest with the Autumn sober, 
To gaze awhile on the cloudless skies 

Of her dreamy, bright October. 
But, hist ! there's an echo borne to his ear, 

Too' feeble for distant thunder; 
A sound as if fiends on old Fifty-Nine 

Were tearing her shrouds asunder. 

He turns and gazes ; no fleet of war 

Has fired a signal warning; 
He sees no speck upon sea or sky 

On that fair autumnal morning. 
And yet — 'tis strange (he is very old, 

And, perchance, he is frail and doting) — 
But he fancies he sees the timbers shake 

Where the Flag of the Free is floating. 

And he thinks he hears (what absurd conceits 

Make mortals unfit to reason !) — 
He thinks he hears in that muffled sound 

A murmur of "Death and Treason." 
Yet he breathes no word of his doubts and fears, 

Lest they call it imagination, 
Until night comes on, and he finds the clan 

At their murderous preparation. 



227 



228 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND EIFTY-NINE. 

And he looks aghast at the horrid work 

The shadows of darkness cover, — 
On the thirsty band that, like birds of prey, 

O'er their slumbering victims hover. 
And with scorn he turns from those dastard souls, 

Their mutinous schemes bewailing, 
While thought flies off to the days agone, 

When old Fifty-Two was sailing. 

And he thinks of one of its gallant crew, 

Of his words of prophetic warning, 
And sighs in vain for a Webster heart, 

With patriot fervor burning. 
"But, true hearts, rouse ye," the captain cries, 

As the tars from their hammocks spring ; 
"We have traitors here we must urge to stay, 

Till we let them off — with a swing." 

And once again is the vessel turned, 

To stem the boisterous gales 
That blow from the bleak December's shore 

And moan through the shivering sails. 
And hundreds of souls are landed here 

On this coast so drear and bare, 
While some are left on the vessel's deck 

With looks of mute despair ; 



EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND F1ETY-NINE. 229 



For they see their captain's form on shore, 

Afar o'er the waters wide, 
And know that the ship is dashing on 

To eternity's waiting tide. 
And if ye list, at the dead of night, 

To learn what her fate may be, 
Ye may hear the wail of old Fifty- Nine 

As she sinks in that soundless sea. 



THE FLAG OF THE FREE. 

Oh, say! did you hear, 'mid the tempest of War, 

That swept like a blight through the heart of our 
Nation, 
The soft whisper of Peace as it floated afar, 

Like an angel of Love, amid strife's desolation? 
Did you catch up the sound 
As it floated around ? 
The word that from hill-side to vale should resound ? 
If so, hasten on to our grand Jubilee, 
And rally in peace round the Flag of the Free. 

'Neath its wide-spreading wing did the dauntless go forth, 
Where the fife and the drum drowned their^ hearts' 
muffled beating ; 
Left the fagots ablaze on the love-hallowed hearth, 
A Father's kind care for their dear ones entreating. 
For they sprang at the cry, 
Without pause or reply, 
That bade them go forward to conquer or die. 
And, with colors afloat, on the land and the sea, 
They fought for their rights and the Flag of the Free. 
230 



THE FLAG OF THE FREE. 



231 



Oh! grandly they stood, 'neath the Stripes and the Stars, 

Undaunted by those who their Freedom rejected ; 
And proudly it waved, 'mid the conflict of Wars, 
Untrailed and upheld, as by Heaven protected. 
For dead patriots were there, 
Bending o'er them in air, 
And guarding our banner with tenderest care. 
And 'twas these held the standard, that faint hearts 

might see 
The heaven-mirrored blue in the Flag of the Free. 

Then, Sons of Columbia, in concert come forth, 

And kneel where was purchased your Country's salva- 
tion ; 
From the wide-spreading West to the life-teeming North 
Let "Many in One" be the pledge of our Nation. 
Oh ! heed, one and all, 
This Centennial call, 
" United we stand but divided we fall." 
And our Country's proud Banner in triumph will wave 
O'er the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. 



THE FOLLOWING ARE 

POEMS 

SELECTED FROM THE WRITINGS OF 

PROFESSOR N. R. SMITH, 

FATHER OF THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME. 



20* 233 



APOSTROPHE TO THE GALAXY. 

What are ye, arrayed in your robings of white/ 
Beyond where the sun drinks in oceans of light; 
Surmounting the stars, ay, the farthest we see 
Just penciling heaven to prove that ye be? 
A cluster so dreamy, expanding, and fair 
Creates in the mind a fond wish to be there. 
Your orbit our vision can never descry : 
What are ye, in fleecy attiring on high ? 

Bright orbs, do ye give to the comet its ray, 

Careering through space with impetuous sway? 

Or, destined as vigils, watch over expanse, 

To guard other worlds from the comet's advance? 

So clustering are ye, so dense in your path, 

Ye may save this fair earth from the wanderer's wrath. 

What are ye? Oh, say, does your circuit extend 
Round orbs where the angels their minstrelsy blend ? 
And do ye pour forth on the throng and the choir 
The splendor of light from the disk of your fire? 
If such be your destiny, Galaxy bright, 
The music how rapturous, blended with light ! 

235 



236 APOSTROPHE TO THE GALAXY. 

Like the songs of the spheres when the Deity's voice 
In the light of creation made angels rejoice. 

What are ye? If not what the muse has defined, 

Then are ye not orbits of beautiful mind ? 

Are the white, stainless robes ye expand to our view 

la chasteness the emblems of mind among you? 

In fancy's excursions behold I not there 

In your orbs so resplendent, your region so fair, 

Intelligence, rising by intellect's force 

Still nearer to Him, of perfection the source, 

With natures immortal, all spotless in soul, 

And cherishing mind, as in splendor ye roll? 

Behold I not, grouped round your altars of praise, 
Your children, at even, their orisons raise? 
Or, cheerful and happy, in youth's ardent glow, 
All sporting in fields where the wild-flowers grow? 
A father bends over his boy with a smile, 
A mother caresses her infant the while ; 
Joy blended with joy, and bliss mingled with bliss, 
In the fond interchange of a smile and a kiss. 

Methinks I can see, by your rills and bland streams, 
Your poets, entranced in elysian dreams, 
Or, waked from their raptures among your green bowers, 
Rehearsing their numbers while culling the flowers; 



APOSTROPHE TO THE GALAXY. ' 

The learned of your system — philosophers wise, 
Astronomers, mapping the stars of your skies, 
Vast oceans expanding, your landscapes serene, 
Your redolent groves and your valleys of green. 

If systems of mind ye are not, still the word, 
What are ye ? No answer but echo is heard. 
Do ye lead in the van of the spheres as they whirl? 
Is the vision of whiteness the flag ye unfurl ? 
And, on the reverse, are there emblems displayed 
Of orbs in full splendor and glory arrayed ? 



Whate'er ye may seem to our dim, mortal view, 
Bright star-isles that gleam in your ocean of blue, 
We will deem you a stellar assemblage refined, 
And with you compare the bright grouping of mind, 
To show how it can, like the stars, by its glow, 
Relieve our life's orb from the gloom of its woe. 



2 37 



ANTICIPATION AND POSSESSION. 

Why do we grieve when fancied joys 

Elude our grasp and fly ? 
If ever, we should mourn when flits 

Some dread reality. 

Should Hope's delusions mar our bliss, 

'Tis folly to bewail 
The wreck of Fancy's brightest dreams, 

When what we have is frail. 

What though to-day a thousand gems 

In flattering prospect rise? 
What though to-morrow every one 

Elude our ravished eyes ? 

Should Reason prompt us to repine 

For what was ne'er our own ? 
Or rather, will it not reprove 
Our grief for bliss unknown ? 
238 



ANTICIPATION AND POSSESSION 

What can Hope's sunny visions yield, 

Her fairest beamings lend, 
To vie with joys that round our homes 

In sweet assemblage blend ? 

Is not the spell that Woman casts 

More bland to heart and eye 
Than all the promises of Hope, 

Or Fancy's imagery? 

Our little ones, — do they not win 

Our bosoms' warmest zeal ? 
What sweeter than the pledge of love 

Can dreams of bliss reveal ? 

Our friends, — do not their smiles enhance 

The joys that we possess ? 
Do not their greetings sweeten life, 

And make its sorrows less ? 

Yet these endeared realities 

May leave us in a day ; 
Far wiser, then, to have and love, 

And mourn when they decay. 



2 39 



THE FEAST OF THE FAIRIES. 

One holy-night the fays convened, 

All in full mirth and glee; 
And formed a gay, fantastic ring 

To Zephyrs' minstrelsy. 

The fairy-dance went round and round, 

All merriment and sheen, 
Till one fay o'er a moonbeam fell, 

And broke the magic scene. 

And now 'twas feast-time; Fancy called 

Each airy-footed sprite ; 
And oh, the riot that prevailed 

Upon that festal night ! 

For Fancy, mistress of the spell, 

Presided o'er the cheer ; 
And, at her beck, each joyous fay, 



With viands choice, drew near. 



240 



- THE FEAST OF THE FAIRIES. 

The dish that Love had ordered 
Proved a medley, tough and tart ; 

Among its contents she discerned 
A dry and shriveled heart. 

It was a bachelor' 's. She tore 

And twisted, wrenched and wrung, — 

At length she spurned the gristly thing, 
And then the fairies sung : 

" A bachelor's heart does not belong 
To heaven or earth, we trow ; 

We'll toss it up, and we'll toss it down, 
And we'll toss it to and fro." 

And then that heart, oh, how it flew 

The laughing fays among ! 
As football some the odd thing struck, 

And some with fury flung. 

But Fancy frowned upon the scene, 
And, when the frolic ceased, 

She mixed in one the dishes all, 
And spoiled the fairies' feast. 

Oh, then, a pretty mess appeared ! 
Smiles, kisses, hearts betrayed, 

L 21 



241 



242 



THE FEAST OF THE FAIRIES. 

Forget-me-nots, and broken vows 
Were, in rude plight, displayed. 

The elves they had not feasted yet, 
Shrill chanticleer crowed — one ; 

The moon withdrew her golden beams, — 
The fairy-feast was done. 

But ere they parted, though provoked 

At Fancy's churlish ire, 
They sang the song they'd sung before, 

And Zephyrs joined the choir : 

"A bachelor's heart does not belong 
To heaven or earth, we trow; 

We'll toss it up, and we'll toss it down, 
And we'll toss it to and fro." 



FLOWERS. 

Who loves not flowers? — a forest in its dress 
Of verdure, rich with figures colored bright ? 
Not gaudily, but with such hues as press 
With a soft, mellow touch upon the sight, 
Wooing the vision's love. 

'Tis art alone 
Yields gaudy tints to flowers by culture, which 
Dame Nature ne'er employs when they are grown 
In fields and forests; there they put forth rich, 
Indeed, but unassuming forms, with cups 
For dew and odors for the zephyrs. Naught , 
Intrudes there, nothing rude that interrupts 
The plastic course of Nature ; all is wrought, 
The smallest flower expanding, to emit 
Unsullied fragrance, pure ambrosial drops, 
Reflecting colors, by its structure fit 
To enchain the mind in thought. The storm crops 
Not a blossom, laying the forest bare ; 
From among the ruins every flower looks 
Blooming still without a nurse's care, 
Save Nature, to protect it ; and the brooks, 

243 



244 



FLOWERS. 



Though cumbered with the fragments, still gush free 
To bathe the violet's head, lest Sol's fierce ray 
Might else the floweret sear. 

In childhood's glee, 
When my light spirits bubbled up in play, 
I thought with Darwin lovely flowers could feel, 
Were sentient beings, and could laugh or weep. 
It was my wont to sit for hours, or steal 
Around to see the florid things asleep, 
Or, waking up, give forth a cheerful smile 
After a pleasant nap. Thus to employ 
My time, or much of it, did oft beguile 
With rosy bliss the too confiding boy. 
Yet 'twas not all illusion. Years mature, 
With notice and research, conviction brought, 
That flowers at night enjoy repose, secure 
From harm, as if the blooming gems were taught 
By Nature to seek rest, awake as we, 
Refreshed, and with the morn expand in bloom. 

Who loves not flowers? At morn and noon, the bee 
Within their nectaries, while they perfume 
The air, sips honey for the hive, the boon 
Imparted freely as the light of day; 
And thus do flowers instruct us to attune 
The heart to such emotions as display 



FLOWERS. 



245 



Unstinted charity from private means, 
And while we thus in secret give, around 
Diffuse benevolence divine, which screens 
The poor from wretchedness wherever found. 

Who loves not flowers? To study them, to learn 
The use of every organ, how it plies 
Its power instinctive to one end, discern 
The avenues of health, and when it dies, 
To see a flower resign to death its form 
With all its loveliness; these to the mind 
Impressive truths convey, the bosom warms 
With pure devotion, feelings all refined. 

Who loves not flowers? 'Tis pleasant to converse 
With them. As learned mutes their thoughts unfold 
By signs, so Flora's pupils can rehearse 
By symbols clear and cogent : they can mold 
The callous heart so as to make it feel 
The force of virtue, can convince, reclaim 
The inward and the outward man, reveal 
What Inspiration urges as the aim, 
Design, and reason of our living here; 
And thus with Heaven's own Book of faith and love, 
Unite in yielding proof direct and clear 
Of life hereafter. Then, who loves not flowers? 

21* 



O! AND OH! 

O ! the enchanting hues that rise 

To deck the morn's young features ! 
Oh ! see what clouds obscure the skies ! 

Oh ! back ! ye gloomy creatures ! 

O ! who's the churl that can refrain 

From prospects so delightful ! 
Oh! tempest! lightning! thunder! rain! 

How dreary ! Oh ! how frightful ! 

O ! pleasant 'tis at sea to view 

The bright horizon round you ! 
Oh ! where' s the ship ! The storms burst through ! 

The raging waves have found you ! 

O ! grateful are the strains that pour 

From every grove and bower ! 

Oh ! quaking is that thunder's roar ! 

It comes with deafening power ! 
246 



O! AND OH! 

O ! blooming as the rosy skies 
That fair one's glowing beauty ! 

Oh ! loathsome those cadaverous eyes ! 
Complexion ! Oh ! how sooty ! 

O ! how that form regales the sense ! 

What symmetry is given ! 
Oh, ugly, graceless being, hence ! 
■ Earth claims thee not nor heaven ! 

O ! what a boon, in weal or woe, 
Is health, life's fairest etching ! 

Oh ! oh ! this pain ! this sickness ! Oh ! 
Oh ! oh ! this morbid retching ! 

O ! favored they who never want 

The man of pills to call up ! 
Oh ! torturing bolus ! oh ! avaunt, 

This calomel and jalap ! 

O friends ! how true ! Oh, foes, how base ! 

O wealth ! Oh, hard dependence ! 
O blest abode ! Oh, wretched place, 

With all its vile attendants ! 



247 



248 O! AND OH! 

And thus in O's ! our pleasures flow ; 

In Ohs ! our pains ; Oh ! galling ! 
But some — 'tis wrong — use Oh ! for O ! 

And O ! for Oh ! appalling ! 



A TEMPERANCE SONG FOR THE 
FOURTH OF JULY. 

TUNE. "ROSE OF ALLANDALE." 

A voice is heard upon the gale, 

Shrill joy it bears along ; 
From city, hamlet, hill and dale, 

Bursts forth the welcome song. 
And echo sends it, long and loud, 

Through all the land with glee ; 
Upon the air glad voices crowd, 

Proclaiming — we are free. 

The cup that foamed with deadly bane 

Is dashed upon the ground. 
'Twas death to millions at the fane 

Where misery was found. 
An angel near that Dagon drew, 

She bade the prisoners flee, 
And sent the pledge the nation through 

Proclaiming — they are free. 
i* 249 



250 A TEMPERANCE SONG. 

The mother's heart with joy beats high, 

Her son's no more a wreck ; 
The beam of hope is in her eye, 

His arms around her neck. 
A freeman, him her bosom claims 

With all a mother's glee, 
"My child !" her raptured tongue exclaims, 

" My child ! my boy is free !" 

And freemen such, this day, in throngs 

To country homage pay ; 
They welcome Freedom by their songs 

On this, her holy-day. 
Then let the temperance flag, unfurled, 

Our country's standard be ; 
And wave this motto to the world, 

" Columbia is free !" 



OLD SOLDIERS. 

We love the spot where Valor bled 

In the days of other years ; 
Where some young hero bowed his head 

Whom memory endears. 

We venerate the mound where lie 

Some aged veteran's bones ; 
Though naught denotes his victory 

But rude unsculptured stones. 

Say not the Revolution's age 

In memory has no place : 
Because the present has its page, 

The former to efface ! 

Old soldiers, those who yet remain, 
Oh ! guard with tenderest care ; 

Remembering that they sowed the seed 
That made*us what we are. 

251 



252 



OLD SOLDIERS. 

Prop up those withered oaks that stand, 

Memorials of the past : 
They tell and point, with trembling hand, 

Where Liberty was cast ; 

Tell where the hero Washington 

With his compatriots trod ; 
Where many a dauntless warrior's soul 

Passed up from strife to God. 

Then let our grateful homage prove 

Our true fidelity, 
To those whose valor, honor, love, 

Were pledged to make us free. 



THE END, 



H 




a 




